In Flushing Cemetery

It's a cemetery of tall, murmuring trees,

Wrapped in a darkness radiating from

Some far region of the universe-

A darkness that echoes in every cold shadow

Here in Flushing, where my mother lies

Under the simple facts of her life, inscribed

In granite, no longer thinking her black thoughts

About God and her third husband, who she said

Had tried to poison her-enduring now

The great amnesia of death, a pall

Of endless loss. He lies beside her, dull

And helpless, as always, without her quickening touch.

I have no blood to offer her or him.

I have come with Nancy, whom she had never liked.

She never forgave her for saying, "I love your son,"

Implying all the secrets of our bed.

Now Nancy throws a chrysanthemum on her grave.

A wind carries golden, rattling leaves,

And the shadows of leaves, harmlessly at our feet.

Nancy holds my hand, indifferent

To the hurricane buried here. We can leave to live.

Our own darkness trails us to the gate,

Where a boy throws a ball to a girl, and she catches it.