New grass grown in thick, starting
to occlude the two VA-supplied
memorial plaques set into the ground:
small frames, leathery-brown,
braid-bordered, each showing name,
military rank, the war fought;
for each the simple cross to mark a Christian,
brighter, brassy and pronounced against the darker
background surface.
I pull at the grass where it’s closed in
and won’t tear easily. I try
—and find it clotted, flesh-like,
gripped like sod-welt surrounding wounds.
Reaching under, my fingers work
edges that finally give
and sharp black ants come spilling out
across the warm bronze,
climb my hands and forearms, biting.
Frantic, quiet hurrying, I then carry the tufts torn loose
across the access road to some brush
overgrown there, untended piles
of other refuse thrown there tells me I’m free
to do the same: soiled, stinging work
that this is, remembering them.
