First and Last

Mid-thirties is late for your first funeral,
beyond those of dogs and goldfish, that is.

And today, even first looks odd,
feels odder each time it slips under my lip.

Like thirst – a need to quench, slake, state:
first hearse, first coffin and pallbearing,

first flick of Holy water on my lapel.
It is joined by the ungodly rain that falls

as we step down the shining steps
and umbrellas appear above our heads.

The ground is so sodden
they’re having to pump the grave

and for now, it is only a hole, another job
for the two lads in overalls leaning on a JCB,

navy blue on yellow, as my brother and I
stand by in black and grey.

A scatter-box of dirt is presented, passed.
I am aware this is a moment to get right,

and the arc of dust is indeed cinematic
as it leaves my fingers and scatters across the pine.

In movies and TV and all that,
it is a single rose that is thrown,

falling in slow-mo to icy piano, orchestra swell
and not-a-dry-eye-in-the-house;

here, at my first proper, non-fictional funeral,
what brings me back down to earth.

is the weight of each bunch
of plastic-collared flowers as they fall and thunk

down on the lid, and everything,
everything hits.

Jonny Rodgers is a writer of poetry and short fiction from the Northwest. He completed a doctorate in Contemporary Fiction at the University of Manchester and now teaches in South Manchester. His work has been featured in various publications, including: Envoi, Lighthouse, Stand, Under the Radar, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Bandit Fiction, Prole, Crow & Cross Keys and Cake.