Unlit Places

The dead complain we lack
the skill to keep them buried
but that’s the earth’s job.
There’s no safe burial ground.
They’ll shine up through the grave
spreading their affection.

Offered refuge under markings
and memorials, they refuse and
wait for us in unlit places
tapping their white canes—
the terrible patience
of those with time.

In the slow caress of years
our weight is doubled by
the burden of others
we cultivate and carry
and deep in the future
children keep us alive.

Ruth Daigon | Mudlark No. 25
Contents | Just Before She’s Born