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LIFE IN THE CEMETERY
2. The Childrens' Graves
'The childrens' graves', he said, 'well
How close do you want to get?'
I said, 'It depends, where are they?'
'In the childrens' lawn cemetery.
Along The Avenue Of Dust Pink Roses
North of The Garden Of No Distant Place.'
Again, I asked, 'Where are they?'
Those children that have gone from us,
Leaving behind their absolute peacefulness.
Wheelbarrows, grave-diggers, gardeners,
Birds hopping along the lawns.
The imagined hollowness underneath.
The little toys sprinkled on the graves.
A truck, a building block, a windmill
& then an answer came from a plaque,
'Walk lightly on this area, a dream lies beneath.'
'The childrens' graves - where are they?'
He said, 'It depends on how strong you are
& how close you want to get.'
'I am strong. Where are the children?'
& then the questions came from within.
What were your dreams?
And why did you let them go?
'They're there,' he said.
Depends on how close you want to get.'
'Well, I don't want to fall in.'
we mourn for the self we have abandoned, we dig through the ashes, we find the bones, the remains of children that we were & we reclaim them, we hold them to our adult chests, we slip into this beautiful grief, as we fade in the sun, saying 'oh, there is too much beauty', we are loving the dead children inside us, those children that we buried in our youth for safe keeping, those children that they said could never return, have now returned, we wept for our long separation, we wept for the life we led without them & we wept with gladness for their gigantic return, for their swift rush up from the grave, into our lonely lives, as the dreams we had forgotten, thank you, for the life in the cemetery & the dead children that have come back to us, carrying their little baskets of flowers & fruit, they have come riding their bikes & scooters, they have come with their skipping ropes & rainbows, carrying their dreams as big as a world, thank you for the dead children, that have reached up against all odds from the compacted dirt of our lives, to place their tiny fingers into our big old hands |
