coffin making 

my brother & i talk about becoming
trapists, monks known 
for their handmade coffins.
i imagine what it would be like
to wake up to the round iowa sun.
bathe myself in a saw.
they cut down the trees themselves.
oak & pine & walnut & cherry.
to be a conduit of transitions. 
on their website they say
their work is part of their commitment
to acts of mercy. i have never thought
of coffins as mercy. 
they sell them
to survive. cash in boxes.
the body's ache from bending. 
i have never wanted to be buried in one.
it's too much like a tiny home.
too much like a bed. 
i do not know if i think death 
is rest. i used to think that 
but the older i get, the more it seems
like a lot of work. sorting out
where all the parts of a self
will go. to the dirt & to the water.
a muddy little raffle.
birds & bugs. a coffin feels like
a request, "let's stay a little longer." 
i would make the wood shine. 
sand the edges smooth.
do they ever joke with one another,
the trapists? do they lay down
in the coffins & close their eyes
with big smiles or do they only
climb inside in secret?
i do not think we would make good monks.
we are too loud & too sad.
i could go if he did though.
we could join together. hold each other's
nails in place. hammer to seam.
each coffin a little merciful boat.