Don’t write elegies
anymore, let someone else
stumble past the mausoleum
and grieve
under the calm shade
of a plane tree, wiping away
the tears of his ex-wife,
staining the knees of his black suit,
first sobbing, then choking back sobs,
comforting others, consoling himself
by scrubbing the white stone
and weeding the plot
year after year,
I’m sorry, it’s too sad, it’s time
for someone else to mourn
my dead,
though who else can do it?,
I just need to lie here
a while longer
face down in the soil
and then get up and breathe.
This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.
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