Burying the Dead -- first draft

The following is a first draft of a poem in progress. The working title is “Burying the Dead.” My intention is to continue working on the poem on these pages, posting the modifications and alterations as I progress to a final piece of work.
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 off like coffins.
But I hadn’t done that; I’d crammed all my possessions haphazardly
Like an evacuee fleeing an approaching hurricane.

I settled into a bombed-out apartment, surrounded by all my precious junk.
A naked bulb dangled above, casting an ugly white light on the wreckage 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 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 a corkscrew which I desperately needed 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.
I’m not above drinking from the bottle.

I’d seen the winos on Camp Street do that – drink straight from the bottle.
That was back before the Warehouse District got so gentrified. Before the World’s Fair.
I’d see them on Friday evenings as I left work, all smiles and upturned bottles.
Come Monday morning I’d find them passed out all along Camp Street,
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
And the clock, in the background, angrily flashing 12:00 in neon red.

I was well into my second bottle of 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 of recent 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.

I shook it and heard something inside rustle.
The door was sealed shut by a combination lock
I turned it 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 and folded stationery.
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 stuffed them in a toy safe for reasons I still don’t understand.
Maybe I thought one day I could resurrect the dead.

Surely out of morbid curiosity
I opened the plastic bag and immediately
My nostrils were filled with the intoxicating scent of perfume –
Her perfume – Anais Anais.

My old self had taken the time to arrange the letters neatly, orderly;
Like a lover preparing his beloved’s funeral attire,
And placed them within the crypt in chronological order.

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.

Nina Simone was at the Village Gate singing “House of the Rising Sun”
And my old girlfriend was suddenly standing there,
In the corner of my room,
Haunting me like a ghost.

Re-reading the letters lead me on an emotional march
From a raucous Mardi Gras parade to funeral procession.
She was there every step of the way,
Waving her perfume-soaked letters like a handkerchief in a Second Line.

I wept joyously at innocence remembered
And bitterly at innocence forgotten.
And I wept openly for the dearly departed.
When I was finished I was as broken and battered and bruised
As those old Camp Street winos on Monday morning.

After the tears went dry, I killed her again that night
This time by fire,
Letting each letter fall ablaze one-by-one from the open window.
Like stars falling into black.



copyright 2010 all rights reserved by Donald G. Redman