It rained the whole time we were laying her down;
Plucked from earth to elsewhere, some fantasy. She left like water after a rain, running to the sun to again slide down. And it
Rained from church to grave when we put her down.
Soaked the soil, left it muddied. Someone stifled a cry but the wet and cold made it sound like a sinus problem. There was something funny about it, but not in that moment. There,
The **** of mud at our feet was a hollow sound.
"Graveyard Blues" is by Natasha Tretheway, from her 2006 collection Native Guard.
— The End —