Robert Moura

When I was eight years of age

          I lived near a forest of evergreens,

                             Their needles strewn across the grounds,
                  And rocks like headboards strewn across the grounds,
                                        Rock paths around the slopes.

                                             It was a lovely graveyard.
                                  No stream, which was disappointing,
                                 But everything was hidden in mystery
                               And the slopes were plentiful you know,
                               they wound like licorice around a finger.
                                        Named, faceless, just a name,
                                   And they were so hard to remember,
                            Especially the ones pockmarked with graffiti.
                                         But we tried, when I was eight.
                                           John Tuttle lived until 1956.
                                                      There is his kid.

                                            It was a lovely graveyard.
                                        And we picnicked there once,
                                        Not in tribute, on a cloudy day.
                                         It was on a Friday, I believe.
                         We owned a wicker basket and, luckily, food,
                                      And a car to drive the two miles.
                                There were onions in the sandwiches
                                   And there were worms below in the
                                       Eye sockets of Frank and Mary.

                          And even though everyone knew where it was,
                                       It seemed to be visible only on
                        Cloudy days, though the sun was bright enough
                                           Shining unasked as it will
                       Over the rocks like headboards strewn across the
                                                 Grounds, caressing
                                     the moss on the Phillips family.