Her voice cracked like the gravel
under our feet, offered little solace
to my nine year old self. Wary of ghosts
and stepping on somebody's grave,
I lifted each foot high, a soldier in the army
she commanded each year, marching
in rows more straight than the stones.
Mercury glass, her eyes let loose one drop
each for the three boxed grass lots
before us. The hot summer rye gulped
her tears with little gratitude. Hardscrabble
farmers buried their families, their hopes
in this chapped and shattered soil.
She used to cut and wave the woman's hair
while the daughter played hopscotch
on the elm-shaded sidewalk.
The girl begged her to paint her nails
Sassy Cherry, cerise against vanilla flesh.
Hungry to show fresh, raw splendor
to lusterless denizens on the town square,
they walked next door for the cool relief
of a single-dip chocolate sundae.
At church, she heard the husband
had shot them all, wasting beauty
on an empty, heedless grave.
We put one glowing white carnation
on each smoky stone, while locusts told us
the hottest part of the day was gone.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones