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.