Turning off Abednego Rd. I am returned
to them who have ceased, to three hundred
final breaths in car seats, hospital rooms,
double beds, recliners, a church pew or two.
The dead teach us nothing but subtraction,
and yet I have walked these rows since I first
knew walking, communing with them, respecting
their negativeness. At the plot where my aunt
rests, I speak into wild onions all those things
I did not say that last night, hoping to subtract
from myself. “Speak if I have said something
to offend,” I tell her, “Speak if I’ve said too much.”
Wind blows through maple branches, and negative
crowns move over her unmoving granite face.
SUBTRACTION by James A. Jordan | Sandalwood Vanilla Poetry Reed Diffuser
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