to speak the names of our dead

we are foolish fellows

we amble and trip

over the grooves carved by our sadness

deep ruts cut through hard-packed earth

your grief speaks quiet and low

and i see the way it paints lines

on the backs of your work-worn hands

and drops your shoulders down

to become like granite

your loss is whispered and you

have found places to bury it:

beneath backyard mud, tangled in tree roots 

sliced among pieces 

of fruit

the dead grow up stubborn and hearty

so i pluck and

hold them whole beneath my tongue

grind their barbed stems and

 bitter petals between my teeth

i will swallow all these ragged pieces whole

if it will let our grief fall mute

i will make myself

split open, ripped

pulpy flesh squeezed out onto sidewalks

ribs cracked raw and wide

but if these stripped-clean bones make the 

bird cage that you nest in ,

then where is the room for my shrieking,

wailing ghosts? 

take them,

loud-mouthed, persistent

let our dead learn the words to speak their names

to each other

and we will lay silent on green grass

staring up into endless, empty skies