Tuesday
Jul072015

The Dead

Kerrin McCadden


They worry I won’t keep the graves when they’re gone.
See my mother brushing off her hands  

at her mother’s grave, surveying lots,
approving and disapproving care and neglect,

my father deep in thought. The trees above
them are the gods of Massachusetts, big-

handed and quiet, tall fathers approving
the play of children in the yard. Somehow

the graves meant new stories about who was buried
underneath, our dead becoming more real,

not only more gone. When I walk with the dead here,
in
my village, I want them to say more than their names  

and relations, lambs on children's stones, more than
the dates that must mean influenza, or some  

illness that doesn't kill us anymore.
I don't want to walk the rows anymore wondering

what shape stone I want, which says more,
the obelisk or the square, marble or granite,

and am I the wife of someone, or am I not.
I want something to happen here, some kind

of story. Maybe the little ghost from my house
will pick up her dress and run to show me her name,

or a flood will wash away the riverbank
—and a knot of bones. Or, slow motion, a hand

will work its way up through the grass—something
the graves can do to us, the way they trip

me when I walk over them, the soil a bit
lower where they have settled, these long dead

I can play whimsy with, unlike the dead
my parents will be, unbearable and new.