As we looked steadfastly on him-

The headstones did not grow here,
they look nothing like pale mushrooms,
they were deliberate place-settings,
identifying implants in this garden.
We walk through the wrought-iron gates
to the marshy light and snapping limbs,
rustling hydrangea and blooming paperwhites
and the sudden cherubims of stone.
I am afraid of tripping.
Over my name, or that of a loved one,
or the silence of these melting marble words.
Arden, Leila, Jonathan, Maggie,
beloved, only, cherished, first,
died, departed, gone, left,
perhaps to somewhere greater than this soul-strewn yard.
But there are clusters of mulch and leaves
as fragrant as orchids,
and light like a lover’s touch
on the ground.
“This place needs a well,” you say,
”One with no bucket, one with no string.”
There is a pause, as if there should be a flight of doves,
the slow rise of a crane overhead,
some creature leaving this place.

I want to hold you,
feel some pulse beyond my own, hear it, know.

Some need for sound.

“We saw his face as it had been the face of an angel,” I read.
And it is graying, lichened, plain,
but I touch it,
and shadows spread from my fingers, leaking to the ground.
I feel you behind me, and under me,
around me in shadow and scent,
and my thoughts are as obscene
as the desire to bury angels.



GLS
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