They were bringing in bodies to bury
still alive. No matter,
the sexton said, we'll put them
in this corner, under enough earth
to hold them down, let birds
blur their cries from these close trees.
Soon enough they'd die or
we'd cease to notice them. Nightly
the dead would rise, start wandering,
flitting restlessly, all talking
so much they'd be no rest
for anyone. Remember,
remember, they'd say as if anyone
could forget. Meanwhile the living
didn't want to be forgotten, always trying
to dig themselves up so we had to
learn to avoid that corner, or only
go there whistling loudly, wheelbarrows
piled high with dead
leaves and flowers, old bones.
Like this, the sexton said, slicing
through that deep mulch, his sharp
spade slamming down. I'd feel it
in my own bones. Whistling is the thing,
or some mindless chatter,
to hold the living
and the dead at bay. The sun
glittered down at day. The graveyard
laid back in it, sleeping,
with its well maintained paths, its roses
growing everywhere. Beneath it all
a muffled hysteria,
the distant sound of screaming
mingled with birdsong, a lull, a little
world that visitors thought peaceful.