In
my mind’s eye, I have been standing here all week,
standing vigil: no signs, no chant or song, no ranting shirts.
Stone-faced, yes, but here must be no hate.
I clear the space. And there are others, also standing.
In my mind’s eye, we stand for hours, days, attentive
to know the place with its chill small breezes,
the squirrels and mice, songbirds at dawn,
the occasional crepuscular fox glimpsed
among trees and grasses. We prepare together
for what must happen as stars wheel over:
the crew digging the hole, and one
who pisses into it, knowing who it’s for.
They arrive in procession with the body.
Together they lower that mad man down.
His hurt and hungers, whatever they were, now done.
A few words said, they leave. The backhoes fill the gape.
Then all are gone, save those who keep this vigil.
We remain, to stand there, still, invisible as night comes on.
Then give us signs and signifiers now,
to quiet this mound of earth and heal the scar,
to keep such pain from ever seeping back.
But it’s too late for that. All we can do
is offer a smaller prayer: cover over.
Take him in, this broken old man who hated.
May he know peace at last, in dust.
May the rest of us know more than rest.
Plant a yew tree, a poem, to mark this place.
Then let earth do what it does best.
standing vigil: no signs, no chant or song, no ranting shirts.
Stone-faced, yes, but here must be no hate.
I clear the space. And there are others, also standing.
In my mind’s eye, we stand for hours, days, attentive
to know the place with its chill small breezes,
the squirrels and mice, songbirds at dawn,
the occasional crepuscular fox glimpsed
among trees and grasses. We prepare together
for what must happen as stars wheel over:
the crew digging the hole, and one
who pisses into it, knowing who it’s for.
They arrive in procession with the body.
Together they lower that mad man down.
His hurt and hungers, whatever they were, now done.
A few words said, they leave. The backhoes fill the gape.
Then all are gone, save those who keep this vigil.
We remain, to stand there, still, invisible as night comes on.
Then give us signs and signifiers now,
to quiet this mound of earth and heal the scar,
to keep such pain from ever seeping back.
But it’s too late for that. All we can do
is offer a smaller prayer: cover over.
Take him in, this broken old man who hated.
May he know peace at last, in dust.
May the rest of us know more than rest.
Plant a yew tree, a poem, to mark this place.
Then let earth do what it does best.
Sadie Ducet's poetry appears in a few places, including New Verse News, Literary Mama, Rose Red Review, and the upcoming issue of The Mom Egg Review.
