A Country Graveyard
       

The last small war was fought in a near field,
and the sons rest inside green islands,
beds of thick weeds where thin chickens
peck at pebbles.

In town, sheep wander past crumbling facades,
boxes of yellowing flowers, bars where men
are lost in drink, and young women
have fled to far cities.

Mothers come on Sundays,
touch eroded names on mossy
headstones circled by stinging insects.
They wear outdated dresses
and grief bowed in shadow
beneath trees raining ash.

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Copyright © 2012 Karen Carissimo All rights reserved
from Dream City
Iris Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission