memorial day: brigham city, 1993
past the spruces at the
mantua port of entry.
past the junkyard
& florist.
may, noon, with air
like bath water, coiled around
the manicured cherry boughs
& the ghosts of masons
at the lutheran chapel.
grandma skulks like
a slack-throated bullfrog,
her skin like
tissue paper.
& she never comes,
but leaves us with
"he's a good-looking black boy,"
as if he were a
sideshow novelty.
narrow roads
like dust funnels lead to
the guarded orchard shade
of the cemetery,
eden's lattices.
innocence without a Fall.
& I roll down
the windows & try to shout
to the children in the
chocolate-channeled ditch,
watching them set start & finish lines
between graves &
broken-scented boughs.
buckets & curtains
of water veil epitaphs, tears.
& we move steady
without aching, past
john vandersteen: anesthetist & vocalist.
of his chrysanthemums
grandpa says "they just
keep flowering, always flowering."
& white crosses glare,
a loud litany for pilots,
the young dead,
in a final, harsh shine.
uncle gary sold his
soul in vietnam.
I've only seen him once
in salt lake, behind
closed doors. his
eyes were like broken
globes of starlight.
dead peonies &
"no wires in the grass."
& my sisters take note
of odd names
like Blackburn & Gleeve,
and run three times
for luck around
the obelisk headstone.
somehow the
strokes of breeze are
heavy-handed, &
I bow my head,
trying to keep my
heart beating, closing my eyes
as grandpa points
out his & grandma's
already up
headstone.