The Bookmark

These houses are either
empty or sad, constantly
changing hands -
in the dusty keep
of the ages, the dark tunnels
of heat and mouse steps
voices come and go
to those places and back
where funerals are less eager
to offer rides and pastries
a body transparent
a body not her own
a body of work
a body
with a finger trapped
in a book to mark the place
a body sewn to the finger
trapped in the book
a gold crown waiting
in a nearby town.

The rain is patient this year
April is patient,
the lilacs that live
two hundred years
the scrub oak
the generations of poppies
on the hill scattered,
are all patient.

Why is it that people cry
over corpses and why is it
they do not cry about death?
You've seen one die
you've seen them all.
No one goes there to visit the dead.
No one goes there to cry
or whisper or clasp.
They go there to wonder
about themselves
with mouse steps, riding
side saddle in the aisles
careful not to bunch up
or bump into one another.
Their faces tell lies and more lies.
No one thinks they'll get caught.