Enter the graveyard.
Walk the rows.
Pause
take in names, dates,
all of it, even the things left behind
for the dead: plastic flowers,
foil whirligigs, stone angels watching,
watching.
Mausoleums, grave plates,
honor them all: death,
the great equalizer.
Yes, you must walk the rows
before you approach her.
She is in the back, hidden under
low tree branches. Few dare
to meet her beyond hubristic
teenagers and local history buffs.
Which are you?
Approach with reverence.
Her stone is covered in a pile
of florid fall leaves. Kneel.
Clear them. Take in the stone,
savor each word. Here lies
After you leave her,
enter your car. Drive
the surrounding roads.
There is a legend about each–
you could find her on any of them,
the woman in the red dress.
They say she has died many kinds of deaths.
The specifics are lost in any number of stories–
angered lover, lost lover, lost child, angered child.
No matter. We know she died. We know she lingers on.
You know she lingers on. You heard the stories in grade school,
you grew up on them. You know she lingers on, you tell yourself,
after repeating the ritual yet again, after viewing her grave, yet again,
after driving these roads yet again. She lingers on
A red blur
2024-01-01