Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Red Plastic Carnations, Flowers for Forgetting

(an old poem instead of breakdancing...sorry, I gotta go see My Bloody Valentine now)


From the street
this artificial paradise looks like plastic
serene green lawns
perfectly pruned trees
brass vases holding flowers
like flags for the dead

Driving in
the lawn is less perfect
less plastic
the paint is chipped and peeling on the brick gate
and the iron fence is rusted
dead brown leaves
nestle in the grass
and crown the narrow road
white plastic poster board signs
pronounce in carnation red
Cement Trucks This Way

I have come to visit
someone I have never met
in this place where he has never been
but cannot ever leave

His memorial is under an Oak tree
crowded so close to other brass markers
that all of their bodies can’t possibly be there
but I can’t imagine where else they could be

There is an awning out to the right
with a big plastic wreath
empty
for a service that has ended
and people who have left
to come back and remember later

To the left is a dirty white minivan
and a man by a grave site
putting red carnations in the vase
tying a pink heart-shaped balloon to the stem
and cleaning the grave
removing leaves from the grass
polishing the plaque

He has been there for a while
and he is still there
while I walk through the graves
thinking about the ones who have flowers
and the ones who do not
all these people
remembered in this place
that says nothing

about who they were

I wonder if the man by the grave site
will have finished his task
when he leaves
or if he will remember
as he drives home
gets lunch
washes his car or mows the lawn
if he will remember in the places
that say something
about who that person was
and in the places that say something
about who that person made him.

2 comments:

  1. Gave me goosebumps. Wow. "I have come to visit
    someone I have never met
    in this place where he has never been
    but cannot ever leave"...I have a little crush on that stanza, and the last one.

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  2. amazing work. i was transported to my childhood. locked in this crazy experience of memory and senses. i love it.

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