She Was Locked in a Casket Once
by Renee Emerson
Father closed her in. New-cut cedar.
No cushion, tufted for looks. She pressed
her cheek against a side, smooth as milk.
The same satin she wore to christening.
Father sat on it for effect; keys and loose change
in the pockets like fingernails tapping the lid.
The men laughed, horse hooves muffled
on dirt. Served her right for hiding
when called. The dead are always
where you leave them last.
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