THE ORIGIN OF THE FUNERAL HAT
Twice, Coretta King dreamt of her husbandâs
assassination. In the first dream, she sat
frozen as a centerpiece as he calmly opened
his mouth to let the bullet in like a newborn
leaning into a nipple. In the second, he was
dancing in an uncrossable ballroom and she
could only watch as a hundred tiny metal fists
beat themselves against his impervious chest.
Both nights, she woke in a sweat, shook him,
whispered âMartin, Martin,â the way she used to
when they first tried on each otherâs bodies, until
her husband finally came back to her from sleep.
Coretta always knew what was coming. She
knew what plague of roaches was crawling up
her husbandâs trunk. They wanted to chop him
down; they wanted to hang their bloody laundry
from his stalks. Coretta grew up watching brown
boys who looked like her husband grow up into
dead things; she knew it was only a matter
of timeâbut when that time came, Coretta asked
for an open coffin so her children would know
their father wasnât coming home. All her fear
left her body like a procession. She wore a tall,
thatched hat to the funeral, black as a crowâs beak,
and a veil circling her face like an astronautâs helmet
as if to say I am not of this, I am only a visitor.
As if to say, if youâre coming for me too, then
donât you dare miss. Change moves like a bullet
and you already pulled the trigger. You think this
is gonna stop it? You think itâs not already done?
