Gil Marverde

Keeper of the protected forest.

a brief
a brief but furious
a brief and furious moment
when the sound matched the sin.

the clueless among us say death
is only a beginning. they talk clouds
and blinding light and happiness.
from my pocket, i pull out my father’s tumor,
still warm. a thin rivulet of blood
slides down my forearm to my elbow,
and falls, staining the sidewalk.
death can be so small, i tell them. and the dead
so greedy, robbing your memories while you sleep.

every morning a beautiful black bird visits my mother
at her kitchen window.
she said at first i asked your father what he wanted,
but he didn’t reply and didn’t have to.
at night she sleeps with a framed picture
of my father, the soldier, grey beret,
beautiful skin, eyes dense like a raven’s.
she brings flowers every day to his tomb. sometimes
roses, sometimes carnations, whatever is on sale
and looks firm. these she tapes
to the polished slab of granite that covers his crypt.
on her way out she begs the caretakers
not to take down the flowers at least until the next morning.

but i’ve seen their tractor and the cart it pulls,
heading to a dumpster, a heap of broken stems
and crushed petals, plastic water bottles, cards.