[Erma, the red wig adorning Mom’s corpse]

by Ben Kline

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Erma, the red wig adorning Mom’s corpse, narrates my dreams 
about those first few days, beginning each false memory with 
the blazer lined, a pink warmer than the coffin’s blush cushions 
Erma doing her best to best Joan Rivers’ taste for the word bitch. 
I know it’s my subconscious talking, some avatar of anger 
scratching through my shock, the subsequent sorrow, however 
many stages she has to claw through to get through. 
Erma enjoys drama, like Mom, staging sibling rivalry 
and church gossip on the back lawn after Mass, all the aunts 
murmuring to and about one another. Erma isn’t a thing 
I tell my siblings about, not even when she phones me 
during the sorrowful rosary everyone else is chanting: 

Hey you, make peace with this. 
It will never make peace with you. 

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Ben Kline lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. A poet, information professional, and Madonna mega-fan/podcaster, Ben is the author of It Was Never Supposed to Be (Variant Literature,) Twang (ELJ Editions) and Stiff Wrist (fourteen poems.) His work has appeared in Copper Nickel, Florida Review, Palette Poetry, Hayden's Ferry Review, and other publications. bentheauthor on IG and Ben Kline on Bluesky.