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Posts Tagged ‘cemetery’

This grave day when it seems

I cannot play, I do.

I go to the graveyard and find

someone who died on my birthday.

I sit at the small metal marker

and read poems about birth and death.

I sing “Another One Bites the Dust”

and dance in my bare feet.

And when the dog starts to scratch at the earth

and flings dirt all over my legs and lap,

I laugh at her great idea

and rub the dirt into my skin,

then cover myself in big handfuls of red dirt,

marking myself as dust.

Here, in the autumn sun

surrounded by tombstones

that have long since lost their names,

it’s so easy to remember

how short this life—

what a gift to be alive,

what a gift to be wrestled by chaos

and find myself still thirsty

for another day, another day.

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Emergence

Tell me, I said

to the cemetery stone,

how long before

our names are

prayers only

the lichen

can speak?

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Past the grave of the baby girl,

past the grave of the beloved mother—

“we loved her,” it says in italic letters—

and past the grave with my birthday on it,

we find a tombstone greened in moss

with its names and dates long since lost.

The grass has nearly reclaimed the stone,

and we sit here together and talk for hours,

joyful expressions of dust as we laugh

and cry and remember just why

it is so damn sweet to be alive, to practice

what it means to love in the face of our impermanence.

All the leaves have left for the year,

but look at what remains—the chance

for sudden, immeasurable bliss

no matter what the season is.

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On a hill
in the sun
at the edge
of the grave
in the grass
let us meet
on the day
when the veils
are thin
between
the worlds—
and perhaps
the Aztec
goddess
will open
her fleshless jaw
so that all
the stars
fall out
as they did
today
so that we
might find them
inside
each other’s words
and speak
of darkness
with syllables
made
of light.

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