1
Unplanned trees grow tight
around the Hokenson baby’s
birth date as I move
from grave to grave.
Sad lovers with milky eyes
that didn’t survive the war, the
markers show the names
of some who lay alone
and others who wait for partners,
who continuing to create picnics
shared with friends
skipping stones in the river,
and listening to the
flop, plop,
as they punch the waters surface.
Scraping the cracked cement
of names filled with moss, I rub
my index finger in the grooves
and embezzle all the information
carved in granite,
a taste of honeyed almonds
on the tongue as I read out loud.
2
The smallest of the stones
sit apart from the group,
a separate playground of
names affixed in mortar,
almost illegible to the
unrelated eye. A small cow
lies on top of one
and another shows
hands held palms up,
waiting for a sour ball
or rain,
all smoothed by the
cold winter that
freeze the flesh of cement
sculpted in passing.
Behind a concrete tree,
brown with sculpted bark,
masonry, graced
with the boy’s love
of hunting.
3
Monoliths of dates and times
that point to overhanging
trees, their branches bending down
to cover the unprotected.
Concrete and marble stand squat
in the earth. the most recent of the
neighbors, their new century glamour
of shine and polish stands out, wreaths
stuck in dirt, mother written in flowers
found at the Ben Franklin, red and white
polyester that poses for silk.
The flowers of immortality.
