2007-04-08
sweeping graves
To begin as it always did
would involve light rain and a more
serious threat, as the company
makes slow manouevre
between mist and stone and prayer
And every year some comment
or other about the 'right stone'
would be passed. And each year his name
would startle us all over again.
Food first, unrecognizeable
under layers of cling-wrap,
which the living guard, their dinner.
The matriach would not remember
to protest against this modern invention,
a ritual we performed against her wishes,
as usual.
Spirits don't mind, we assure
Chicken tastes better without ash.
Then the deciduous joss sticks
which thirty-something Daniel, the
Uncle who never spoke English
would take to roast in the candle flame.
Three at a time they would be split
then further divided, their grey
heavy heads from brittle bodies.
Grimy hands will rattle them in silent litany
The hands move up and down, the eyes never follow.
We don't say anything at all;
Great grandpa spoke no English
Or Mandarin.
And I don't speak anything else.
My face is mock piousness as
I pray my perjury will not
be betrayed. Perhaps if I don't blink,
it would seem like I'm really trying
to talk to worm-eaten remains.
The paper houses, clothes and shoes
are then given to fingers from hell
Someone has bought a roulette
a safe present now that he can no longer make it spin.
Each offering is narrated to the children
in language simplified by translation.
We present cars, bank notes, and gold
Finding it somewhere to know
That grandpa will find them useful.
Hands are quietly clasped behind backs
forgive us, Lord, for this gross environmental disgrace.
All activity must happen within that 3 by 6
the neighbours must not be disturbed.
While my granduncle's grave seems empty
everything else cannot be.
A wordless trove of personality
must haunt those walking above.
We pass the stones apologetically,
for talismans of laughter do not work
when the bones are not your own.
My great grandmother becomes small
One in a row of hundreds.
Now we are in a sea of colours,
Of gilt, of marble, of flowers.
Bouquets of love, the very last,
everlasting aromas with no scent.
We are in a sea of colours
Of painted tiles, of grass, of gilt,
Dancing clowns of guady red, blue
an apotropaic carnival of guilt.
nothing ever happens at 1:39 p.m.