The gravestones are damp, shiny with recent rain.
Everyone we’ve ever loved sleeps beneath this ground,
smelling the grass, letting weather trickle into bones
that lie in their beds, broken rosaries wound through
what once were fingers clasped across the chest.
At their feet, pairs of good leather shoes, tightly
rolled blankets not yet riddled with holes.
In trouser pockets, soft bills, loose change.
A gold tooth that’s fallen into a circle of ash.
How long has it been like this? Soon, hundreds of
little flames flower atop white-washed tombs.
Moths in the branches sift smoke from their wings.
—Luisa A. Igloria
10 26 2011
In response to an entry from The Morning Porch.