Why I hate the Atlanta Braves

This is a death poem

about the Atlanta Braves

and the only time

I saw him in a suit 

and tie, flat on his back

in the coffin, tie knot snug

against his neck,

his thinned white hair

combed to one side.

He spoke to me as much 

in that moment as he did 

those evenings we would 

watch the Braves together,

silent nights in unholy summers,

ignoring all my overtures

for conversation—the game 

commentators my only real 

company aside from Mamaw’s

occasional scream from 

the kitchen: turn that fucking 

volume down! Placating her 

for a few minutes only to turn 

it up loud again, maybe 

to discourage me from talking, 

though maybe not. I stared 

at his folded-up chin and wrinkled

fingers until my eyes hurt—

dry and unblinking, begging 

for tears I could not give. 

Not then. Not when the casket 

was closed for the final time 

nor when he was buried,

still unmoved by the mental 

image of his body—lifeless 

and alone in the forever 

darkness beneath its dirt roof.