Where are my dead buried? Have the dead buried them off?
Where did we bury Uncle Gi? I hopped on his grave when I was five. The fulvous grass was lined with white in the white, winter sun.
He started being dead the year before. But I grew up and have mislaid him. Is he laying low in my folks’ attic? Or in this very sock drawer?
Time was, we knew our dead and called on them under the birch on the way home from church. Who beat me out of their communion?
I have not organized my closet or my dead. No shoe trees, no family tree.
No shoe trees, no family tree. It’s either a forest or a pair of curled shoes, like the witch buried under the house.
Why are the dead face up? Wouldn’t she rest on her side, just as she turned for him in bed with arms that yawned with years?
The grave at sunrise. The grave buried in snow. The grave in recession. The grave at war.
A rain gauge of departed flowers. Twigs, too. One twig and a knot.
Obsequies are marriages of time and time again.
A bugle plays reverie. In the distance, I don’t recall.
Dirt falls from her hand, from her cloudy face. Leaning back on an awning pole, a funeral guy wrings a fag against his sole.
What is over? After the obsequies, my car door makes a certain thump.
“Trill” are my Twitters. Tweet suites from @slowreads.
Above photo adopted from ClintJCL’s photo. Used by permission.