Hollywood Cemetery on A June Afternoon (after Sara
Teasdale’s “A November Night”)
Peter Manda ©2013
Let us go down to where people die
Across the highway and, There! Up by,
Where the streetlights shine; and lie
preaching sobriety on Fridays; the White Men give
To you and I a token. Thinking surreal is
A necklace hugged around your shoulders.
The coffee fresh still to play with
Styrofoam, folded along the edges open.
Down the street where once we
pried the second story windows and sat
On the warm tar roof; smoking cigarettes and drinking beer
The cicada not yet ruffling in the trees, the
Damp heat not yet settled on the hill;
Our royal carriage, your bed, where in many long
Afternoons we enjoyed our youth; you on me
And I … hard at work for several whole days.
Across the street and around the corner;
A gate.
Some will hurry out from and others wade in
Down the curved hill; a chain and bars and velvet
Grass, carefully shorn; some dimples and divots in the
ground.
Children could have played with haughty joy
Were silence not so golden.
Out in the corners past the thousands buried for bars
And stripes; memories fade of blue eyes, a smile, and
Hatred for Nixon! The shadows of chestnuts and magnolia
Cover those traces of scattered skulls under
Angel wings. Some hope here that love will find
Them; among those empty fields of hearts remaining
On benches, one last time. Wedding
Rings no more. Over the crest of the hill
And on the river. Flowing past in daytime
You can imagine the moon.
A man standing beckoning East –
In hope for cotton trade; as others, wrought under steel
bars and gates Sought union; still in delusion that their
commerce
Could continue, intertwined in the withering
Decomposition; of dust
As footprints in the grass, barefoot and all
Carried the frail dew with them
Like firefly nova; bursting, then flickering.
One last time.
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