Two Funerals (poem)

I attended my first funeral
when I was four-years-old.
My cat lost her battle
with time, careening into
a grandfather clock, cracking
her skull and springing her lifeline
like a trap. In the backyard,
my father dug a hole and slid
the shoe-boxed cat deep
into the earth, patted her down
and left her alone. Less than two
years later, I sat stiffly on a pew
in the church I grew up loving,
and wondered if my father
felt as comfortable in his coffin
as he seemed, a relaxed smile
on his kind face, and I wondered
what “dead” meant here
where God must live every day,
here, away from the backyard
where my father once turned
a solemn shovel full of dirt.