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.

VISITORS

From out the November dark three knocks;

There has been rain; the moon is in the road

But the women in the doorway are not wet.

The young one is a sorceress; she will speak truths,

Go mad and die by water, her pockets

Crammed filled with stones.

The next will never find what she seeks

Will love well but not wisely, she will live long;

St. Peter watches her grave.

The oldest, great-hearted, died young; on this night

All three stand at your door, waiting.

Why have you not bid them enter?