by Renee Emerson   

issue 62

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.