At My Grandma's Funeral I Think Only of My Grandfather
       

When my mother carries her ashes up the church's aisle
he is hitting her. On Eagle's Wings & he is hitting her.
My sister reads Ecclesiastes, there is an appointed time
for everything. No. He is hitting her.
A time to love & a time to hate, he is hitting her.
The Lord is kind & merciful & he is hitting her.
I watch a candle burn & he is hitting her.
Whatever the gospel reading, he is hitting her.
The priest for what. My uncle, the petitions,
may she rest in peace, but he is hitting her. He is hitting her
in the kitchens & bedrooms of houses I've never been in.
He is hitting her in basements I never found the steps to
that contain decades of family pets:
cats, dogs, bunnies. He is hitting them too.
He is hitting all five of his kids,
especially my mother. There was a time
when they were small enough to fit
under the beds, when safety was knowing
how to contort your body.
Be not afraid but he is hitting her.
His eyes, triggers, his hands the gun
& the bullet & the shot but not
the recoil. My aunts bearing gifts
& he is hitting her. Taste & see & he
is hitting her. My father giving me a look
for not taking communion & he is hitting her.
Looking at her making dinner,
hitting her. I am having flashbacks
that don't even belong to me. My mother
refused to pass this on, had four kids
she didn't know what to do with, so she stayed
away from us, afraid of what could happen
if she got mad. Trauma hanging in the air
by proxy, the heavy hand he hit her with.
In Ohio & Indiana, he is hitting her. He is hitting her
on a boat on Lake Erie. He is out in California
with my uncle & he wants to hit her. He comes back
from the west coast, wants to hit her, but she is nowhere.
Her last few decades spent without him, the only relief
of this morning. My mother takes her ashes,
last time, & he is hitting her. Here I am,
Lord & he is hitting her.

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Copyright © 2021 Lisa Summe All rights reserved
from The South Carolina Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission