.
. . we leave behind three or four images of ourselves, each one different
from the others; we see them through the fog of the past, like portraits
of our different ages. -Chateaubriand
If
you turn left at the first roundabout & follow the road for a mile
you’ll come to the cemetery where she holds court.
There’s a sweetwater spring on the property & a large brown
cow in the shed giving milk; the boundaries are clear.
She came first for the body & insisted it be a man’s; dark & lean with a hint of muscle in every move.
Orange for the gown was her next choice but soon was convinced blue might & then it was magenta until yellow & . . .
Her skin may sag but her eyes are bright & she wields her scythe with
guts & precision & startles the mob with her wrath.
Will she know you now that the winds have changed & you’re surrounded
by empty trucks & an army of talkers?
Be careful what you pack in the night & heft by day; an alligator,
two jackals – a monkey with sharp green teeth.
No one will hold you hostage in summer but in the fall there are many
who need work; avail yourself of my services.
If you’ve forgotten I’ll remind you & besides, somewhere
down the road there’ll be signs to follow; just like the last time.
