Gravestones: A Series of Prose Poems
Blank, in the shade
By Megan Baxter

He was buried as far from the others as possible, tipping down the bank, in the roots of two sugar maples. Blank. Peter kneels down, trying to read what was never written there. What would warrant this exile in death? Seeing him there I am almost afraid, want to pull him back, show him the view down the valley and then I realize- that is where he wanted to lie, in the quiet corner that looks onto itself. His name was loved by those who spoke it with love, why now, why not this sleep. There is a certain grave grace in disappearing, of shrugging off that last chance of fame. The stone now reads:

“Died humbly, remembered by those who knew my hands, my lips, by the land that I worked and that worked me. Look below there, see the stone wall, the careful row of oaks, maybe that was me, or my son or a kind. If I were you, I’d go back, walk away, forget this place. The dandelions are lighting up the fields today, tend to the hay and the trout hatchlings, love, work, that’s all you need right now.”