Les plus lus ▸
Dave Bonta
I am here to wait
which may teach me how
I make others wait
present in absence
as a body brought to be buried
several carrying it
in some little bed
I put on my best suit
to go to the burial
of an ordinary blue flower
we do not live in the light
and come to forget everything
a coachman cannot know us
where we were
I look into the fire
a whole city of light
burials plague it every instant
fleet hands rising
as if from a man without name
not concerned about sleep
we bury her
in her fine clothes
rain doting on the ice
a dead rose is tending
some other air
the ordinary pains us
at the burial of a little boy
I had some experience
the breadth of the whole meadow
and we were all kin at the burial
my hole my hand my feet
on the wheel of occasions
I am denied liberty
a priest officiating in a cubical
not one little door
and no mind to play cards
with a root
Clerks go to burial
like any other full
or ill business.
We talk gravely,
eat ink and point.
The war I mourn
died yesterday of spotted fever.
We sat late disputing
at the burial.
We could not mend
the great stone.
I saw the king heal it
with simple water
and go to the burial of dirt.
going with the sun
into the street
I drink like a scholar
at the burial of a book
Of course they were doomed,
born with a curse; the whole litter mewing, cradled by
the torn out seat-stuffing in a hearse on flat tires.
Of course we took them; a chance to be gods and healers,
our internal boggle turning like mileage to spell "Mom."
We boxed them on blankets and sweatshirts,
fixed a water teat to the side within reach,
administered formula feedings in a warm kitchen none
of it mattered. The weak ones
died before the debate on names.
She was soggy-faced, her prize pick
wrapped in a cardboard coffin box
like a Christmas gift.
It weighed less than a Beanie Baby, its yellow eyes
shut beneath stuffed animal fur for always.
I dug a hole out front with a stone and tucked the box under