Thoughts On The Cemetery
By: Linda Imbler
I've reached that level
of immovable grey in my hair,
and I tarry at the gates
of a land filled with looming, coiling shadows in the eve.
The silence sits upon these acres,
except for the flash mobs
that periodically enter the confines,
each dressed in a somber black,
and clutched by the cold, icy grip
of each individual's memory.
Suicides absorb one perspective,
with perhaps the acrid scent of gunmetal
still evident on some partial face,
or the red blaze of an unattended cigarette
added another member to the horizontal club,
or there may be once mortal parts
weakened by the excessive stuffing
of what is not good for the body.
At any rate, I see it so plainly.
The infectious silence that comes over us,
invading our pores,
each organ becoming resigned
to our mysticism soon to be released.
I say we, because very soon,
as they carry me in,
either angels or demons
will be knocking to get in,
and each will be hoping
that I will respond with "enter."
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