How I love the narrative of cemetery forays,

the sky glowering with meteors, the earth shattered

with the living, his face up my shirt like a dog

sniffing circles, occasionally stopping to dig,

to ask if it’s blasphemy, fucking on the graves.

Beloved mother, I have no intention

of becoming you, but lights drip sweet green

apples from trees, and my face,

a warm breast.  He drives through the wrought-

iron gates like a wolf plows through snow.

I lay supine as the dead, my hair fanned

like a dark yarn across the grass, growing

as their hair grows, my nails move over

him the way their nails still move,

my limbs shimmer and turn as theirs

are said to turn after a shock.  Meteors fall

like contractions, one every other minute,

some bright with pain, others dull and barely streaking

the monitor of the sky.  It is cliché to wonder

about their lives, whether she owned a little black

clutch and he a pocket watch, whether their children

brought the fireworks of chrysanthemums that pop

from the stones.  Better to concern

myself with Earth and its desires,

with the liquid his body makes,

where it goes after he goes.



Photo By: Henry Lee