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My job is to fill people up, he says. His job is to make people cry. To stand at his pulpit and gesture / past the crowd of faces who fill black, soggy napkins with tears and cup their hands—fingers intertwined and palms upturned—in their laps / toward a box or an urn or a photo. As he gestures toward the box or the urn or the photo, he gestures / toward some color of life / lived, some cup those filling their napkins with tears have filled, at some point in their life, with life and love and tears. I’m very happy! / he swears, defending his employment. There’s a goodness in grief—a deep orange heat that warms through sorrow’s silly winter. It’s not like he knows / the one toward which he gestures, the people he must make weep. Just the weight of relief they lift / from their hearts to place upon his, how it sits like a tooth / on a perfectly green grape. It’s almost like you knew him, they say and as they gesture / their lips toward the tips of their eyes—melancholy-red—before they go / before the box or the urn or the photo to dribble a wet prayer / that collects in the bowl of their woven, grinning hands.