At the Cemetery

At the Cemetery

“We’ve come to see you, my old man.”
Mama murmurs, wipes the dust
from your face, a vigorous, handsome
face looking straight at us.

Now you dwell in this small room,
windowless, with a glass door,
on the wall, not too low, nor too high,
a perfect spot as feng shui says.

I peep into your neighbor’s -
incense sticks, ash holders, ghost
money, fake fruit and all that. And a flag
over the lacquered cinerary casket.

Mama whispers: “ You said you came
to this world naked, and would depart
the same way.” But I’ll bring you, next time,
a national flag, and watch you draped

in it, like an Olympian at the finish line.

~~

We’ve come to see you, my old man.
Mama murmurs, wipes the dust
from your face, a vigorous, handsome
face looking straight at us.

Now you dwell in this small room,
windowless, with a glass door,
on the wall, not too low, nor too high,
a perfect spot as feng shui says.

I peep into your neighbor’s -
incense sticks, ash holders, ghost
money, fake fruit, an elegiac couplet
over a lacquered casket.

You don’t need all that. You came
into this world naked, and quietly departed
the same. We talk softly about death, your will -
our words moistened in this spring rain.