As we lay in rusted coffins,
planted in the backyard with the honeysuckles,
our hands clasp the pearls, rosary beads, and lockets
that will remain around our necks long after flesh and muscle
ossify, hair and nails preserve. We will remember a time
when the wrinkles of our foreheads were like tree rings
and the dimples in our cheeks--the knotholes where we kept
our treasure. Two mounds of dirt, poised with intention
twelve feet above our heads, whisper lullabies as the stars
and moon peel away like wallpaper of a nursery.
The pillows we rest on turn to lead. Our chests
faint once more. We fix our eyes to the wind
in the branches and leaves--a mobile
dangling above our cribs.
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