The history of the city is etched in names
weathered down to afterimages on stone –
Sidebottom, Orsini, Ruiz, Pierre.
Flashes of color decorate the newest graves,
plaster angels and empty liquor bottles,
baseball hats of the dead’s favorite teams.
I always go back to the short one with a glass case
packed full of Muppets and teddy bears
and hanging off the post underneath
as if they’d been crucified together
a plastic Barbie in a pink dress
smiling at her plastic Jesus on a cross.
But forgotten in the long grass behind them
under a simple stone laid flat in the ground
no name but only the same date twice
above and below, a grave small enough
to cradle in both hands.
Fading pink and yellow toys lie under the weeds.
I kneel as if I knew her and finger-comb
uncut grass off the face of the stone
like brushing fine strands of hair
behind the ear of a living girl
