Open to All Kenneth Pobo

Key West Cemetery

Sun on stone,
humid names drip.
Flowers. Memory
needs a bouquet,
a place to rest.

We walk slowly past
these bodies,
take our time.

The sea is kinder,
covers bones
with coral and sand.
Our salt veins
flow back under fins,
turtle shells,
pulsing anemones,

but among graves,
grief has an address:
mother, father, lover,
less than photographs,
a few stories told
which can't be proven,
like faith or love.

We listen for a voice
that cannot speak,
grow more aware
of breath. The cemetery,
a community.
Stars petal the ground
with light.
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