a plot to rest. 
They come back up.

She thinks every generation must walk around with them: 
invisible skeletons clacking at each step, 
hanging like grim earrings 
from the heads of daughters now grown.

It’s a thought she tries to banish 
but memories grab and don’t let go. 
They grip her hair, her skin, as she walks the cemetery 
where stalks of flowers droop everywhere 
like spines bowed by age 
though her parents’ grave is bare of grass and blooms. 
Their bones have not yet quieted enough 
to bear the weight of plants and tears 
and they spare no thought for her, 
for faded marigolds or the way the joints 
of her body crack but don’t let go. 
Memory beguiles her 
but vines no roses on her door, 
drops no bright marigolds on her floor.

 30 april 2004

 Abalone Moon 
Summer

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