the funeral

father was angry
that I wore black
nail polish, my first funeral
unceremoniously torn
between grief and fashion
I donned all the black
my closet could muster

grandmother was my tall
redheaded alcoholic rock
that stood firm bwteen
father and the war
that was us, protective
and silent her will
against his

as I glanced dry eyed
at the bonnets
dusted off and
carefully displayed atop
aging heads, grey faces
I wondered
who would protect me now

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