Pretending We Know We Are Pretending
In every poem, I am speaking to my mother
as if such a thing is a possibility.
Because she is still alive but I’m away.
She is alive but I’m not writing
about her. In another world,
she gets along with my girlfriend
and invites me home for Christmas.
I have been looking for plane tickets to get there.
One way trip to the other world.
There, my father is dead
and no one speaks of it. He is in the ground,
holding dirt and sunken lungs. No one talks about it.
No one visits when the hole is freshly dug
or when it is filled. When they drop the casket in,
there is a pile of leftover dirt that no longer fits.
We all see the grave and don’t mind it.
Boot tracks pressed down on the orange rectangle.
No one knows whether a grave is really a grave
if there are no flowers, no headstone and no mourners.
Maybe it is only a hole holding someone who doesn’t exist
pretending to be sacred. Maybe
it is just the ground people walk over. They mill around
but no one steps on the pile.
Later, I find the plane tickets. I pack the Christmas presents.
In the other world, we cremate him
because the family burns bridges no matter where we are.
My mother and I wear the ashes on necklaces.
We pretend they are full of dirt and talk about
everything but death.