it’s two thousand ninemy new husband’slast name officiallyappended to mineon the marriagecertificatemy grandmothermet himdidn’t liveto see me wed himBlessings Storms GoldLamp Hood Lordas we drive out of stateinstead of stoppingat Willamette NationalCemetery wherethe fresh gravemarker reads VirgilElizabeth Myers we makea pilgrimageher house is for salebut not yet soldin the back yardwe pick allthe raspberriesleft on the canesit’s Juneour vows are newgreen pint boxesin the coolerberries like jewelsBland GrubFair Herbat every dustygas station andnational parkparking lot I sneakthe cooleropen placeone or twoon my tonguesquash themIf I tried to speakI would cry they areso cold and sweetRobin HobbSheckells GillBerry Lodgeit’s twenty twenty-oneand cicadas dry new wingsin the sun simply tothe cross I cling goesa stone saintwith a cicada clingingbetween her toesthe smell of cicada meatrotting insidea million carapacescrunching under our feetthe dog’s tongue lollingfrom gobblingup the deadSwan FoxLocke Cogsome of the nameson the graves are wordsand some seem like wordsbecause they makesounds you’veheard sketchthe skeletonof our neighborhoodBuckingham ForbesHopkins Hawthornethere’s Ralston there’sPurvis elbowing into Waldronthe granite graves turnsilver in the shade;shade the pale greyof granite drapesfrom Midvale to PinebraeSmiths give way to Sladeswe brush away cicadasto make a purple crayonrubbing of the gravethat says NOT DEADBUT SLEEPINGMarsh StokeHeath Pole Coke