You've put off visiting
This particular graveyard,
For a long time-
Never mind that all graveyards,
Are your business now.
A different one
Every night.
Except for this one
'Cause this one's too personal,
You think as the dry grass
Crunches beneath your
Lug soled boots.
Yeah, too personal.
Hey, when they told you
That your mother
Had been found dead
In her apartment,
Beaten to death
By one of her
Dickhead boyfriends.
You blew it off,
Being too busy
With Juvenile-
She left an empty
Space in your heart.
Shit man, not empty!
Pot and pills
Booze and heroin
And assholes
That called
Themselves men-
Filled the gap left behind.
Gone?
Hell no!
The gap
Was always there-
Even when
Your mother
Was alive.
It taught you
To take
Before being taken.
To use
Before being used.
Better that
Than a victim
Like your mother.
Damn straight!
This worked
Until one day you woke
Up and realized
That you were
Her all over again,
Only louder.
So you dug yourself out
Shovelful by painful shovelful.
Until this evening,
You find yourself,
Walking through acres
Of graves marked with metal tags,
Stamped with numbers.
You spent a long time
Looking for the number
You'd written
Down on a torn open
Cigarette pack in
Sharpie.
Only to let it
Sit on your kitchen counter
Among the Coke cans
And ash trays
For nearly a year.
Tonight something made
You take the bus
With the
Torn open cigarette pack
in your jacket pocket.
One block down
From the bus stop
Over the wall,
Past the stone markers
Of the rich and remembered,
And to Potter's Field,
Among the numbered,
Forgotten dead.
You finally find the
Grave that matches
The number you hold.
It's just a metal tag,
No stone;
The forgotten,
The unwanted
Don't warrant
A stone.
Hey, a tag's
Better than a poke in the eye
With a sharp stick, right?
You think as you slowly
Pull the dead weeds
Out of the frost-rimed
Earth that covers the
Slight depression
Where the blank
Space that was once
Your mother now rests.
Finally there's
Room for the
Stupid little bouquet
You brought,
Fake looking candy-pink
Roses and some fluffy
White shit-
The florist called it
"baby's breath".
The flowers look lonely
Against the metal tag
In the predawn light.
Shoulda bought a bigger one…
(Aw, who the fuck cares?)
Then you tell
The blank space
What you've been
Doing, who you've seen;
About a lot of shit.
Which is more than
The two of you,
Ever said to each other
When the blank space was alive
As the sun comes over the horizon,
Turning the world
Into silver.
You run out of words
So you stand silent
As the frost glitters around you,
Outlining everything with
Diamonds and margarita salt.
Finally you turn away.
…
…
…
You pause…
…
…
…
Decorating your mother's grave
Is a single dandelion,
Yellow against
The October-dead grass.
You bend and pick it,
Smelling the ghost of summer
That it's tiny petals hold,
Before tucking it
In the top buttonhole
Of your jacket.
With your mother's shy
Blessing burning
Against your collar,
You wait for the bus,
Smiling at the half-asleep
Commuters who stand
Around you.