This is the second version of “Burying the Dead,” an experimental work in progress. You will note mostly only subtle differences than the original draft posted earlier. I feel I’m fairly close to a finished poem with this draft.
DGR
"Burying the Dead"
by Donald G. Redman
You should decide what to keep and what to leave for dead
Before you pack all your crap in boxes and seal them up like coffins.
But I hadn’t done that; I’d crammed all my possessions haphazardly
Like an evacuee fleeing a hurricane.
I settled into a bombed-out apartment, my precious junk
Still in boxes strewn about like caskets after a flood.
A naked bulb dangled above,
Casting an ugly white light on the carnage below.
The windows were bare so that the whole world could peer in if it wanted to.
The wooden floors were faded and in need of sanding and refinishing and
I thought maybe I’d do that before the furniture arrived
But who was I kidding.
It was cold outside, gray and getting dark.
A good day for a funeral.
But first I had to pry open those damned boxes like a grave robber and
Loot the valuables before I could dispose of the corpses.
A small box labeled “Important!” laid disemboweled on the floor.
It had held the corkscrew I was now using to open
The first of several cheap bottles of red wine
I intended to spill that night.
Where I had been brilliant in marking where the corkscrew was buried
I had been equally stupid in failing to label the crate with the wineglasses.
Screw it.
I’m not above drinking from the bottle.
I’d seen the winos on Camp Street do that –
Drink straight from bottles shrouded in brown paper bags.
That was back before the Warehouse District got so gentrified.
Before the World’s Fair came.
On Friday evenings as I left work I’d see them lining Camp Street,
All with upturned grins and upturned bottles.
Come Monday I’d find them passed out or hobbling,
Battered, bruised and bandaged.
I shoveled through the box with the corkscrew
And dug up a portable clock radio and plugged it in.
Townes Van Zandt was singing “Nuthin.’”
I walked to the window to peer out, but only saw my reflection.
I was well into my wine
When I unearthed a squat, metal penny bank fashioned to resemble a safe.
It was from my youth, a place to store my valuables
Though I apparently never considered money valuable.
My parents had been purging their house of artifacts
From our childhood, returning shit to their rightful owners.
The safe was mine and so I had the burden of carrying it
Around like a cremation urn.
The door was sealed shut by a tiny combination lock
I turned the safe upside down and discovered that I had been a trusting soul in my youth
Or I had been forgetful.
Printed in permanent ink: 24-14-3.
I opened the vault and withdrew a plastic bag
Stuffed with pale purple envelopes.
I knew instantly what they were:
Love letters from a relationship I had long left for dead.
After our relationship had failed
I apparently had been unable to destroy the letters
And instead, entombed them in a toy safe.
That’s why you don’t let the living bury the dead.
Surely it was out of morbid curiosity
That I opened the plastic bag.
Almost immediately my nostrils were filled with
The intoxicating scent of perfume.
Like a lover preparing his beloved’s funeral attire,
My old self had arranged the letters neatly, orderly,
And placed them within the crypt in chronological order,
Embalmed in her perfume.
Nina Simone was casting a spell on me from the radio
And my old girlfriend was suddenly standing there,
In the corner of my room.
A ghost.
Maybe I was thinking I could resurrect the dead;
I slowly removed the envelopes from the plastic bag
And read the letters one by one,
Beginning with the first letter I had ever received from her.
Of course she had promised me her undying love
And hearing her whisper those words once more
Made me almost believe all over again.
But they were after all just empty promises made from the grave.
Re-reading the letters lead me on an emotional march
From a raucous Mardi Gras parade to a somber funeral procession.
She was there with me every step of the way,
Waving her perfume-soaked letters like a handkerchief in a Second Line.
When I was finished I was as broken and battered
As a Camp Street wino on Monday morning.
I piled off the wine and opened the window
And shooed her perfume into the dark.
I killed her again later that night.
This time by fire,
Burning the letters in a funeral pyre.
Ashes returning to ashes.
I’m getting better at burying the dead,
Having buried a few more relationships since then.
A marriage.
My parents.
The hard part is staying away from the graves
Once you bury them.
If you don’t, the dead will surely rise from the ground
And eat your heart out.
copyright 2010 * Donald G. Redman * All Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment