FOR IMMEDIATE PUBLICATION

Libitina, the Roman Goddess of Corpses,

Wishes to announce that, a misprint,

Has made her the Goddess of Corners.

She finds this rather a relief.

For some time, as Titus Livius notes

In his great History of Rome,

She’s been restive; corpses have complained

That their prayers are frequently lost

Or answered inappropriately.

Sacrifices to her may be offered as usual

At her temples. Her priests will still

Sell funeral supplies and pinatas.

She is open to suggestions as to what

A Goddess of Corners should actually do.  

DURING THE RETREAT

Shultz and me found the corpse the first time

Lying with coins on its eyes in a mostly burnt house

Decently wrapped in an unbleached shroud. The Corporal

Spoke a few words and we buried it beneath a yew.

We found the same corpse – well, it looked the same –

In a field. It looked less peaceful than the first

Its fingers clutched tight around its scythe-handle.

We were being pursued so simply threw some sand on it.

The third corpse was shuffling cards at a crossroads

Grains of sand were caught in its hair. We didn’t speak

But it gave me a shrewd glance as we passed.

Time is a left-handed relation of mine and that night

Dropped by to visit in my dreams, not as an man

But as a kid, with a bag of marbles and some bent nails

Which he seemed to feel were valuable.

“Unchancy,” he said, “finding the same corpse

More than once. If you find it again, ask it

Why it had my scythe. Perhaps it’s kin.”

STONE

How unfriendly new gravestones seem!
"Here I am, perfectly straight,

Magnificently heavy;
My neat-carved letters tell the world
This man is dead! Just let him try
To get by me! I am determined
To hold him down forever."

                                                  In time,
The ground shifts a bit and tree roots
Tilt the stone. It relaxes, becomes lenient
"Hey, corpse! Your name has blurred
And the date of your death is unreadable.
If you want to get up and visit a while
With the other dead folk, go ahead"

A FEW QUESTIONS

Since you died, have you rambled?
Do you turn up sometimes towards dusk
On Chinese roadsides centuries ago
Always welcome for your stories?
Do other poor men share your food
And do you travel with them a while
As they seek the wonder rabbis?
Or do you deal in notions now
Bringing treasures from the pack
You've toted across the high hills?
When there is a wake, does the family
Pay you a few cents to stay up
So the dead man is not left alone?
Does the daughter who cannot sleep
Hear the things you and the corpse

Discuss so softly she ever after wonders

Whether she heard anything at all?

FOLLOWING

In November’s uncertain light

Ishmael joins the procession.
What matter whose corpse he follows?

Even odds he’ll absent-mindedly
Mosey along past the cemetery
Until he’s companied the soul
Beyond the border. Its long home waits;

He, though, must find employment
Though his skills all have rust on them.

By the gates the other storytellers

Crowd closer, making space for him.