Lying On Her Grave
Incense poked into her soil
We wonder how she died
On November 11, 1878
Woman with lichened, unreadable name
Decayed below her tombstone
A mother oak--dark and stretched
Wide against the glowing white
Of sky
We drink Palomas with Mezcal
Before dodging traffic to a gallery
Watch an artist demolish his perfect
Vessels into sunken forms
The way he remembers bodies
Slumped in the street
Returning to earth
In Iraq
As the candle burns low
Our legs wrap like roots
Noticing gothic letters, flickering
Her name becoming clear
She is John Sutton, a man
We wonder if John has finally
Come out on Dia de los Muertos
With the light
When the gallery lights dim
We eat tacos across the street
For the Day of the Dead
While the Addams Family flickers
Behind the bar, yet
My eyes rivet on spirits
Moving in and out of apertures
Of her dress
No one is watching
On the Dia de los Muertos
The lovers sprawled amongst
Bones. No one
is honoring
Life like those who flicker
In their skeletal moments
Freeing themselves, exorcising
The dead
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