If We Meet in the Cemetery

A poem about death and the ways we carry on

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Hello friends,

I typically wait until the last minute to post my Soaring Twenties Social Club Symposium piece, but I’m ahead of schedule. I fought for this month’s theme to be Death, and I’m already impressed with the work being contributed. When I started this poem, it looked pretty different. I wanted to write something dark and spooky, but I ended up with something heartfelt instead. I hope you enjoy it. I hope it brings you comfort.

Also, the birthday sale is still going strong! All month, new subscribers will get 31% off in honor of my 31st birthday. That discount will last 12 months. Be sure to tell the spirit haunting your house.

If I see you in the cemetery,
I won’t tell you I’m sorry. But
I will hold your hand if
you want me to. I’ll lend you
my life for an afternoon
as you give some of yours
to the dead.

Don’t give away too much. The dead
don’t need you anyway. They lie there
in the ground, breaking down, until
they build themselves back up again. The dead
are in the trees, giving themselves shade. The dead
are in the bees, pollinating and producing honey
so sweet you can taste their memory
on your tongue, coating you in a slow warmth
usually reserved for summer afternoons. The dead
know they’re good for the soil, feeding the earth
and scattering themselves across the universe. The dead
know they’re still alive.

If I see you in the cemetery,
I won’t tell you not to cry. Crying
pulls the loss from your soul. You’ll feel
lighter when you’re finished. Besides,
salt makes everything better. It cuts
the bitterness and makes it bearable.
It removes rust from neglected things.
Salt forces you to feel the pain, but it
knits you back together in the end, just long enough
for something else to rip you apart.

If you see me in the cemetery,
don’t leave me flowers. Flowers die.
There is enough death here. Leave me
a stone, one smoothed down by water
and worried thumbs. Or find one sharp and jagged
like your anguish. Hold it so tightly that
it’s the only thing you feel. Then
let it go. Let me watch after it for you.
When you visit, you can see how
the wind and the rain have tempered it. You can see
how time softens all things.

Weekend Potpourri

• My Spotify has been all Mammal Hands all the time lately

• Insects have feelings too, maybe

• Birds are working smarter, not harder, in their migrations

• Learning new words in new languages is so fun

• Sports are the best

Thanks for reading, and don’t forget the sale! In the meantime, tell me a story about someone who died. Let’s bring them back for a moment.