'Every Year I Bury a Couple Hundred of My Townspeople.' So opens the
singular testimony of the poet Thomas Lynch. Like all poets, inspired by
death, Lynch is, unlike others, also hired to bury the dead or to
cremate them and to tend to their families in a small Michigan town
where he serves as the funeral director. In the conduct of these duties
he has kept his eyes open, his ears tuned to the indispensable
vernaculars of love and grief. Here is the voice of both witness and
functionary. Lynch stands between 'the living and the living who have
died' with outrage and amazement, awe and calm, straining for the brief
glimpse we all get of what mortality means to a vital species.