Death Custom
       

There's too much land here, enough to store
every last rotting bit as long as we like. In closer country,
measures are taken, bones dug up after a few years, an emptying
as natural as a weekend morning when the jam no longer fits
on the shelf in the refrigerator, when you pull each tub out
of its corner and pop the lid, examine the damage. The chill
slows things down, but nothing stops the mold. Best to toss
the whole mess in the trash, but even then the spores
get away from you, drifting along the hallway, demanding
attention after the forgetting. They know they were worthy
once of preservation. What is a grave if not a cabinet
for the things we have let wait too long?

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Copyright © 2019 Alice Pettway All rights reserved
from The Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission