Gravestones: A Series of Prose Poems
John Willey & Martha Moulton, One Grave Marker
By Megan Baxter


In the farmhouse: the old iron bed, the smell of lye, the worn cloths of a life of work, the copper tub, the woodstove blackened, the slick rope, the seasoned pans, the old rifle, the worn knitting needles, the ancient apple trees, the lilacs reaching up to the second story, the smell of cattle and milk and lard, butter and wild blood, the taste of metal and hide and wool, taste of hay dust, taste of manure and burlap and…Love.

At 91 she did to rise to the days work. His fingers cracked and buckled. He woke often, reaching for her body. In June he dreamed of the days of berry picking with the children, the girls in their bonnets, the boys tossing the fruit, Martha in her work dress and white apron, breasts heavy with milk, face flushed in the heat of early summer, and dreaming, reaching for her good jam as if to eat the last supper, died.

A granddaughter picked a handful of lilacs from the second story window and placed them on the single grave.