Again? As though I told you how the first time.Everyone always tries to theft, bring them back out the grave.Let them rest; my parents stay dead. Their dirge, my everymorning’s minaret. All the world’s earth is my momma’s grave.The water droplet on the park’s sunflower petal: her name.I kiss every stone & it becomes my father’s tomb: his grave.They said I was too young for the funerals, so I playeddress up at home. I’ve never been to my daddy’s grave.My ache: two jet fuels ruining the sun’s set play. The bee’sdiscarded wing, glazed into honey. Everywhere I look — graves.Would I trust a God that promised me my family?Does it matter how, if they’re gone, twenty-five years, a gravewhat’s left of their remains? Does it matter how? There’s noplace to see them again. Home is the first grave. Poetry and Poets, Deaths (Fatalities)
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