These two conjure up as I cross the cemetery
on my way to the woods: groom in ruffled shirt
and mutton chops, bride with ringlets piled high
and lacquer-sprayed, her dress as frilly-white
as wedding cake. They pose for the portrait
of their marriage day, unaware they’ll end up
here, below rose quartz, sleeping away eternity
in varnished boxes in separate concrete vaults.
I say their names—Phyllis and James—
because what is a ghost or a gravestone
if not a wish for remembrance? Once spoken to,
they fade. I lower my insect net and walk away,
hoping I’ll have a different kind of epitaph:
my nameless name scrawled across the sky
by a dying star, or scribbled on a hidden pond
by long-awaited rain.
Brett Warren (she/her) is the author of The Map of Unseen Things (Pine Row Press, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in Canary, The Comstock Review, Harbor Review, Hole in the Head Review, ONE ART, Rise Up Review, and elsewhere. She is a triple nominee for Best of the Net 2024 (Poetry). www.brettwarrenpoetry.com
© 2024, Brett Warren
Halfway Down the Stairs 