The Maynard
Spring 2018

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Sophocles

I return to the scene
of the crime. Gather pebbles
in my open palm, inhale

grains of dirt. A funeral
moves through the field.
Men & women draped in black

trudge solemnly over rock,
through mud, up the hill
where a priest waits.

I stand alone, off to the side.
Close by a white lily burns
filling the air with smoke.

I want more than description,
more than tasting grilled
fish, rice mixing

between my teeth.
Light your pipe under the tree.
Wait until each one disappears

returning to family, work,
more news of
catastrophe. There’s sun

on the mountain but the rain
is not done. I will walk
toward the shed at the foot

of the small cemetery.
Will hang my coat on a nail,
take the garden shears

& cut my hair. I will sprinkle
the soft brown strands
over the grave then wait two

months for the dead to rise.