The Dead

Poem

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The Dead

Petals from white pears fill the sparklines on
the road. My wife from date to date protrudes,
swinging the bowling ball of pregnancy.
I feel the seasons run away from me.

Plaques ask us to remember, but don't tell,
certainly not about the way they died,
the name they give anonymously as
the person it refers to, pitcher's slab

resting against a tree, a brick to step on,
dead pets all mixed with grandparents. The dead
foliate in a kind of equity,
the discount bin of past humanity,

uninteresting ones on equal footing,
parity. What I want to know about
is that one little girl, the one who died
last year or so, it went around but I

forgot. They put her nameplate on a bench
outside the playground at the school. A few
might know her name, and then they graduate. 
In time the grades move on and leave the plate

behind to stay, squared, on the weathered bench. 
Churchyards will wait until the flowers stop
for good, and then they disentomb the ones
we loved. Uprooted, past all imposition,

the dead are placed to twist in unnamed soil.
Flowers may be renewed...but we who visit
never are. On the fringe, a loved one raises
his hand and asks his leave, and in that way

he falls behind. For us, we can't but let
them take a break. The visitations at
the hospital, the badgering the home
nurses, the trying anything to hold

them in, all fighting on behalf. It's mine,
it's mine, ... and soon they're dragging you away
from what you tried to keep intact.

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