Apr 11 | Necropolis (poem)
sound is fuzzed out
when you walk in
stones lie heavy to remind you of things left unsaid
lips unkissed, friends unmade
family unfarewelled
lives unlived (too many)
a necropolis is somehow more of a thin place
than a soft field
a simple stone
those are an ellipse
an erased photograph
a qualified nothingness
there was never any substance
we are all in-between
whispers between beaded blades:
You think you are here
but you are not.
a necropolis is fixed
it waits
we are among the dead
as at a great feast
they remain unabsorbed and yet
disappear all the same
it is somehow
less safe
you remain, solid as they
and wait for some great groaning
as earth labours to burst them forth
become different, perhaps dreadful
babes bathed in blood
wailing with painful newness
longing for old air and wet warmth
unaccustomed to uncovering
unable to return
we joke about one fellow
“francis b. born”
underneath, we decide, it should say
“francis b. dead”
i laugh but it’s a knowing laughter
memento mori
remember, o thou man
we are
dust.
–Clarity
Note: I wrote this on my honeymoon after visiting Lafayette Cemetery #1 in New Orleans. It’s a thin place. -C