I’ve several friend and relatives in Alabama graveyards. I wrote a novel about one. The first poem is about a man after service in war. The second is about my grandmother, Willie Mae. 

  • Alabama Graveyard
  • Grandmother

———–

Alabama Graveyard

He confronted Life with antique Courage
And Death with Christian Hope.

-James Louis Petigru (1789-1863) gravestone

They come in April and in May

On their church Decoration Day

To our garden behind the gate.

We’re just a mess back here,

Tangled up in honeysuckle, wisteria

Fallen clumps of Spanish moss

Beside a warm, dripping spring.

It makes them happy to clean us up.

And we let them. We’re a passive bunch

But for one.

The young private beside me

With the tawny mustache died at 19

Tending Yankees at Castle Morgan.

He caught the chill one hot day

And was laid low. Real low.

As I hear him tell it he was never one

To let the moss grow too long

Under his poorly shod feet.

When the people come to clean him up

I can tell he’s mortified.

When fire ants start biting the workers.

I know he’s fussed.

I hear him. But I like the visit.

I bless the hands that fix the space.

For the nourishment of all our bodies

In accordance with Baptist liturgy.

Some come to please their parents.

Some to honor the soldiers.

Some to enjoy time outside.

Some to continue healthy grief.

But there’s one among the living

Hollowed out and dead. His visits

Are colder than my own dusty heart.

Cleaning us up is mighty nice

Unless you’re coveting my grave as yours.

Sir, can you not see we’re not like that?

We’re dead, but not dead like you.

We were killed in action by

Good Christian men.

“Onward Christian soldiers!”

We didn’t commit slow-motion suicide.

(Except for Jedidiah over there.

That was a botched job

He’s still embarrassed about.)

What robber steals your life each day

So that even I can see you’re dead?

Are you Prometheus? Attacked each day?

Or just a man giving up?

Sir, even I can sense you have a spirit there

Buried under all that junk. Can you find it?

Does it yearn for the yawp of that little boy

Over yonder

Flicking his wrist, speeding his lure,

Into that wide place in the spring

Like the seasoned fisherman he is?

No? Maybe that’s just me.

The dead can project too.

Dear Sir the committee of the dead

Asked me to ask you to keep

Your cold clammies to yourself.

When you reach onto my grave

It even gets me fussed.

Your living death is contagious.

The wind blows through what hair you have left

Calling you to remember your prayers.

Peace. Joy. Love.

What cannot be taken away

In this world or the next.

You pray. You church.

You go on about God for hours.

And each year you show up

Deader than the last.

By the river, near the church

Under the rich green moss

Even the dead can see:

Your dusty heart is

Drenched in the Gospel

But parched for grace.

Instead of clearing the honeysuckle

Stop. Drink the nectar.

Taste that life is sweet.

Leave our graves to God.

Wash off our dust in artesian wells

That still bubble life.

All is not lost. There’s still time.

And an eternity of joy.

Practice up.

For God’s sake, and ours.

(c) 2013 Allegra Jordan

——————————————

Grandmother

Orange candy cakes and a soft

Southern accent call me to come,

Sit, and talk. No trouble too big.

Iced tea and bright white hair.

Plenty of sugar to make children

Sweeter. As if that were possible.

I do not remember our meeting,

But our parting came under an

Alabama sky the blue of her eyes.

A gentle wind blew that day,

Perhaps from a gate left open

To the golden fields of God.

(c) 2004 Allegra Jordan.