Burial #1

Burial #1 The autumn is dipped in mud. The trees are skeletons reaching toward a pale sun. The earth is a swallowing weed-grave. We trample through the grass in a uniform slowness up a hill to what is mute but calling. These moments are made of ice and are personal. The mourners are huge and I, a glass ornament, and the men in black, unquestionable gods as they lead our way with their familiar suitcase. Our journey ends and the old stagger into an oblong, their faces wrenched with years of disappointment. They are ready to die yet seem terribly afraid. But I have just been born and do not understand.   The spades round out the grave. It is an eye staring into me like the sea out by the cliffs in the ancient fishing village below. As the body is lowered a cold wind cuts me open. I am scared and try to sink into the dirt. It is all over, but they speak of returning soon. “I wonder who will be next,” one whispers. The old ones crumple down the hill like dominoes; in their black and white costumes they look like death. I drag along behind and notice the sun is gone. Written October 7th, 2001 © on Oct 07 2001 03:21 PM PST   18 • 0 • 1