Last Will
What he really wanted, she confesses,
Was to be funneled into shells and shot
Across a dove-field. Only, she could not--
The kick of shotguns knocks her over. Well,
I say, he'd understand. It doesn't matter
What becomes of atoms, how they scatter.
The priest reads the committal, something short.
We drop the little velvet pouch of dust
Down a cylindirical hole bored in the clay--
And one by one, the doves descend, ash-gray,
Softly as cinders on the parking lot,
And silence sounds its deafening report.
AE Stallings
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