The Saturday cold rattles like a candy wrapper. The thin air Weights my lungs with honey. A blue stew. The old ford mourns skyward, 5 Heaving its wheels in circles. We halt so slowly It is almost flying. We fall out Sideways; our petals drop and blanche. I am so heavy 10 My feet Almost touch the floor. The familiar Fears near. We are almost there. The dirty mausoleum squats on the hill 15 Like a birthday. It's so big It's obscene. Green Laurels hunch in the corners like shadowy dwarves Awaiting the signal to push.... The starched arch, snow-simple, bent 20 Floats above our silly heads. Counting: Two-hundred ten, eleven, twelve And my father's father arrives. We glide in ghost-clothes about the grave. This is a family day. The inherited rings 25 Click and skim As loves the shapes of hands pass over The deep, square-edged name. They rub and rub, An eternity. Quiet. 30 They are finally clean. When everyone else has gone blindly, Over the blunt edge of the curved world, Striding like heroes Why am I left, weightless and colorless, 35 To stop The flat slat light the tossed urn burns?
From the collection "Youth Youth Youth"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.