We go for one grave and find
hundreds, lush green walkways,
beautiful stones. The trees like
Ents, inviting, embracing. Flowers,
real and false, everywhere.
We begin to read the grave markers.
Alice May. Dorothy Cook. Helen Jackson.
Family plots with one tall monument.
Above-ground tombs like miniature castles.
And then, five stones in a row, each
emblazoned with a single word:
Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray.
If you've any comments on this poem, Jessy Randall would be pleased to hear from you.