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The following poem is excerpted from the latest issue
of ZYZZYVA,
number 81.
Death
of a Pope
Stephanie Waldmann
If my father had been pope, crowds would have filled
the hospice yard with tears and prayer. Bells would have
rung.
Someone would have lowered flags at Marshfield City Hall.
I might have been his chamberlain,
touching a silver hammer to the creases in his forehead,
calling three times the name Grandmother gave him, declaring
him dead.
Once home, we would have sealed his office,
closet,
top drawer in the old oak dresser, locked the front door,
hung the heavy interregnum chain across the garden gate.
His
wedding ring, broken to pieces. All address labels
with his name, destroyed. There would have been no pilgrimage
to Goodwill with unpolished shoes and fraying neckties
in two paper bags.
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