Go on, give him a kiss.
--But I can’t kiss a corpse.
It’s your father.
--Not my father, though it looks like him.
This is your chance. Soon we’ll close
The lid, take the casket out to the limo
Wagon, to the cemetery. Say goodbye.
Kiss your father goodbye.
You look like him, remind me of him.
The undertaker goes on, talkative
In this parlor dream as he was in life,
Say, my sister’s backyard years ago
Where we met. He was always handsome
Except the last couple of times,
The last at our niece’s wedding party
On a patio in Newport overlooking the beach
Of chilly salt water, the rocky surf.
Then he himself died, is gone now,
His wife’s first summer as a widow.
I wonder if one or both daughters
Went to his open casket, leaned
And kissed his handsome mouth,
His dark Mediterranean good looks gone
By then. Did it look like him?
He never failed to mention my father.
You remind me of your father. Here
In the parlor of memory, his undertaker
Hand on my shoulder, his voice
Hushed. Kiss your father.
--That’s not my father.
If I touched his lips to mine..
Many things I could have done,
But not then and there.