Our Dead

They said to me:

		We keep our dead among us, buried in the fields.
		We plough around their mounds;
		noontimes, we lie in their shade, chatting.
		The occasional spadeful keeps them with us.
		In stubble days, goats climb their modest height.

		Until in rain and forgetfulness,
		a great-grandson's ox ploughs through,
		and their bones return to ours.

And I replied:

		I keep myself among my dead, their endtables and sofas.
		I dust around their tchotchkes;
		evenings, I lean against their cushions, chatting.
		The occasional mending keeps them with me.
		In troubled nights, ghosts strum my modest memories.

		Until in a change of fashion's season
		some great-granddaughter will plough through,
		and donate all our love to charity.



Cumberland Poetry Review, vol. 17.1 (Fall 1997).  

Second-place winner of Robert Penn Warren Poetry Competition

copyright Sarah Schneewind 1997