The Sunrise Cementary


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.


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.


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.

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