The land where my brother is buried
next to him my father
next to him my grandfather
and one day my mother:
Haunting and hoping at once
my feet are stuck to the ground
then my knees
I bow close to the ground and examine all that grows from it.
Wild mosses and weeds next to
shrubs planted by the still-living, the mourners.
My eyes lift. I see that I am actually quite high.
We buried them on a mountain. Yes.
Poetry is my portable sacred ground,
a space to lay all that lives and dies in me.
I lay it there so that I need not carry it anymore; or
because I cannot carry it anymore.
or: because when it is on the pages, I can see
just exactly what it was I carried
Ashes, I will become ashes,
scattered here, lighter than air
and then: it will be me who is carried.
high – carried high.