Morove Cemetery

Morove Cemetery


There is the sign—
                   small.

There is the road—
                  dust, a long way in.

My dad handed me ten dollars
when I found his stone—

grass-less, 
sun-burned fabric flowers,    

chain-link fence 
all around,

a flag-less
flagpole,

branches above,
iron bars 

rising from dirt—
below.

sand, stone, water, wind
made his name illegible.

Further beyond 
I find Elsi

a cracked vase
tilted in the weeds—

and then, Thomas
chiseled new in grey—


struck six metal poles 
connected them
with a chain—

stuffed plastic flowers
down each pole

in pink and 
red bouquets.

Among the grey
a finger of Coral Gillis

dragging itself  into 
the next October day.