We went that night to the undertaker, delivering
a child's clothes, fit for the occasion of a funeral,
both of us feeling guilt. Actually all of us could have done other than what we were doing when he slipped.
The clothes were the final betrayal.
He never wore anything more than one of my tee shirts
He would pull this frilly Little Lord Faunterleroy suit
off with a grimace had anyone dared put it on him.
There was no church service later. The priest was dying.
Our town only had one. The service would be performed
by the director of the funeral parlor.
I stayed in the pickup, Dad checking to see if my brother was presentable.
I didn't know why they bothered. I had seen him in the field, peaceful, even with his swollen head run over by the wheel of the haying truck.

I should like to be buried naked, a single white sheet
my own from my bed.. I said that earlier, and was told Catholics didn't do that.
I wanted to scream Jesus was buried like that!
But I didn't. I wasn't talking to Jesus, because
all afternoon I begged the whole goddamn holy family to
bring him back and take me, or Billy, or my sister, mom or dad.
Dad came out and said I could come in.
We, the only ones to ever see him again because the coffin would be closed after that;
forever.
I walked through the door and stopped, looking across the room of chairs at the small coffin bathed in light, flowers around it already
I walked back to the pickup, got in, and waited. I made up my mind
deciding none of this happened yet. I'll deal with it later...

Joe wasn't in that coffin. It's only what's left when you die.