Easter 1952
We march into the spring green cemetery,
the daffodils stupidly on fire and oblivious,
the whole world alive, save one
the one we are here to visit.
My black patent leather Mary Janes
squish in the soggy green grass
as my brother and I approach,
soldiers without weapons,
except for my black plastic zippered coin purse,
inside a dollar, a quarter and a nickel.
We, the reluctant soldiers, aged seven and nine,
are commanded by aunts in black coats and heavy
black- laced shoes,
a buzzing black hive of grief
that may explode in tears at any minute.
The grass mined with the danger of it;
We are stoic, we are impassive.
We are motherless children
paying Easter respects at gun point of guilt
We advance on her grave, gripping grape hyacinths
To be planted by aunts kneeling on newspapers
Troweling into the living earth.
The ground cries out at our steps.
Leaving
I lose the purse.
One little loss
To stand for everything.
