Poem 27

It occurred to me that it is Memorial Day, so I took a quick tally of the people I have known who have died. It turns out that a vast majority of my friends and family are alive and kicking. It's been a long time since I've been to a memorial service or funeral; even the death in this poem is fairly distant in time. Fortunately, death hasn't been a huge influence on what I write. I suppose there will be time for that later.
This poem gives very few details about my grandmother. I should write one about her.

For Elizabeth Stewart

With a cloud-scattered sky
wrapping over worn hills,
I drive out from rocks and interstate
to this cherished green,
fresh with sprinkler water,
above Connell.
Polished stone over earth
shines with wet grass clippings
and hides what’s left of you
after 13 years in one spot.
It’s so strange now,
a mineral symbol among the wind
and grass here, a bird song,
distant traffic.
I remember the music

“Just a closer walk…”
To think I didn’t know you in the casket.
My hands cowered between skinny legs
and the wooden pew.
I imagined building a brick wall
between the dark and me
while I tuned out the man who sang,

“Grant it, Jesus…”
I could not look at Dad
so I stared at the hymnal and
offering envelopes,
counting the days
of early September
until sixth grade would begin.
I wanted the service over, and soon.

“Let it be, dear Lord…”
I have slipped out of my air-conditioned
Honda to stand
on green so precious
here on the Columbia plateau
that we pipe in water for miles.
I want the last memories
before they seep into my rocks and soil
as you have seeped down into basalt.
I scoop them up in a muddy paste,
which starts to dry even in my hands.
We dissolve in so many ways.