693 Cemetery Road

We lived a week in the slope-ceilinged, head-hitting house,

banged our knees against the banister, tied pillows

over our brains, covered our hearts with oven mitts.

Spilled every kind of tea, crushed blueberries to mask

our bruises. Sunrise pierced our eyes awake. The sky

filled and emptied, fog surrounded the bed, curtained

our lovemaking. Once a day we heard news of drought

across the land and strife on the convention

floor. We cooked outdoors–scallops, turnips, rhubarb pie–

and folded ten-dollar-bills into herons and pelicans.

We found companions. A shabby-winged eagle perched

on a post, presided over our seaside holiday. Quick

visits from a hare family. One evening, a stillness with ears

stopped and moved and stopped: through thick dusk fog,

nine deer in the tall grasses, staring at us.

Behind our house, the cemetery. Beyond, suddenly,

the world’s calmest ocean. Villagers had pulled

tombstones out from dense brush and bayberry and rugosa,

scrubbed till the old Swiss German names appeared. Rearranged

the stones in a harmonious new order that renames

those lying below, children and women who died young,

men who lived long. Tidying the dead. We walked miles

of beaches daily, burned the bashed tops of our heads. Tides

puddled at our ankles, soaked our thoughts. The dead lent us

their sleep each night, and when we woke, we thanked them.