Death of a Pope

by Stephanie Waldmann

If my father had been pope, crowds would have filled
the hospice yard with tears and prayer. Bells would have rung.
Someone would have lowered flags at Marshfield City Hall.
I might have been his chamberlain,
touching a silver hammer to the creases in his forehead,
calling three times the name Grandmother gave him, declaring him dead.
Once home, we would have sealed his office, closet,
top drawer in the old oak dresser, locked the front door,
hung the heavy interregnum chain across the garden gate.
His wedding ring, broken to pieces. All address labels
with his name, destroyed. There would have been no pilgrimage
to Goodwill with unpolished shoes and fraying neckties in two paper bags.
Mother and I wouldn’t have argued in the kitchen
about the destination of his soul, about burning flesh and grinding
bones versus entombment in an ancient vault.
If Father had been pope, we would have gathered after eighteen days,
sequestered ourselves in the pine-paneled dining room,
and voted to elect another father.