Rows of gravestones, white and neat and even,
Perfectly rounded shape and just-so spaced.
Trees and accompanying inconve
Nient roots should interrupt them frequently.
(But never wire-filled fake flower bunches,
Mourning and ignoring death and change.)
We do what we are good at--carving stone
And choosing words.


Graves of Jesuits and soldiers, uniform,
But typically let's vary shape and size
And age--some should be sinking down and smooth
Reminding us that even memory,
Like my great-grandma's (Mamo), falls apart.
In a reawakening of the past
She calls me by my mother's name.