There are ill-formed dreams on which
I can no longer stand. They have become
the wilted flowers that languish
in vases on cemetery grounds. No one waters
the flowers. The flowers are forgotten as quickly
as the ones who died. There’s no honor to be found
in death, only rest. Occasionally
I will choose to make a pillow out of the cold
granite headstone of someone I once loved.
No I don’t stop loving those who no longer live.
But love only matters to the living, the dead cannot
feel the warm embrace of love. With my head
resting against the stone, I fall into the
fleeting and illusory image of me curled up on the lap
of an ancestor. All that go before me, I count
as my ancestors because they know more than me.
They have unearthed the mystery of what lies
on the other side of death.
It is not their unfulfilled dreams for me that I hear
beating against the inside of the wooden coffins.
It’s an abusive rainstorm falling in torrential sheets
drenching me and trying to revive all the wilted flowers.
Death is just a state from which no one
ever returns. No matter how much rain falls,
it will never be enough to wash away the debris
or unearth the bones, a way to bring our dead back to us.
I have not been trying to breathe life back into
the dreams of those who died before me. But life
has a way of evolving, bringing back days and ways
that we once thought long gone. Ideas cradled in
forgotten history, but even forgotten history
fights to live. Don’t rearrange the bones. Leave
them as they lie. Leave the bones where they lie.
Peace & Love,