Funeral Home
by Sierra Sczesniak
I was raised in a room full of strangers. My brother
And I escaped to avoid their pitiful gazes,
Sucking cherry Jolly Ranchers into our mouths
Until our jaws ached. Dizzied
By the overbearing scent of carnations,
We begged our mom to take us home
Before the priest came. I remember
Them all congregated around the casket stand—
Our operating table for a heart transplant on Tuesday,
On Thursday, a stage for a live performance
To an audience of iconography. We carved our names
Into those wooden tables like autographs.
I remember the neon salamanders we
Unearthed from the back hill during rainstorms,
And their beady eyes popping out into
My fat child fist.
I remember the milky scented shell shaped soaps
In the bathroom where I finally learned
The most beautiful things are better off observed.