A poem I wrote after my grandmother's funeral. Her death didn't effect me much, per se. We weren't close. I was, however, in a mood - In that chasm, that seems so huge and dark, between relationships. Rows of graves can make you think about dying alone, when that's the way you are living.

I carried my mother's mother to that hole where she would be covered with dirt forever. If the course of events goes the usual way, my mother will die before me and I will see her put in the earth also. After that, it's my turn. Two degrees of Kevin Bacon from the grave, I am.

Never loved - not really, truly, loved. I think about that a lot. Cold in the ground, with no one to cry over me. No kisses that really meant anything to take with me. Only shallow relationships, like the graves murderers dig. Brief encounters with fading names and desperate lusts best forgotten. I seek something true, but finding is for those more fortunate than I.

The poem was written in March of 1995. I am still empty, still alone - here in my mode, my mood, my chasm. My grave? I use the word "hope" in the poem. Hope was left in Pandora's box. I sometimes wonder about that box and if it might not have been buried with hope still inside.


 

The Long Box

I carry a long box
flesh and bone and satin therin

i carry a long box
with seven of my blood, but not my brothers

i carry a long box
the mother of our fathers and our mothers

i walk with the seven
yet, i walk alone

i carry a long box
to the portal of eternity
to a hole

the long box is lowered
and gone
earth takes back another one

empty, but not sad, i stand
where granite names mar the land

i do not want my name in stone
to be covered up and left alone
unless i know i rest, in part,
inside a warm and loving heart

gray is for the hair in the long box
lowered down with rope
not for the soul that searches
for friend or love with hope

 

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