Even at that green age we knew
to stay away from that garden
of stones, those tender stones
adorned with roses, crosses, angels
blowing their horns toward heaven,
short stones inscribed with just one date,
just one Christian name, Baby.
Even then, as we played ball
on the broad, green lawns and raced
our bikes along the tree-lined lanes,
we felt the grief that hung
like dead limbs above that shaded
patch of grass set back from sight,
that lingered like the stink
of a decomposing fawn.
Even then we understood
that there was some grief
too keen for us to bear,
too soon for us to know
at our green age, and so
we pedaled slowly past
that fenced-in place,
that yard of short bones,
rode past without a glance,
without a word, the only sound
those playing cards we’d clipped
to our Schwinns with clothes pins,
jacks and jokers slapping the spokes
of our wheels slow as a failing pulse.
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