Ivy Stevens

Up the graying carpet, the shushes of shuffling feet.

The crunch as someone steps on a leaf blown in

from the open archway, a cool wind occasionally

sending them skittering across the floor.

Sitting on the hard wooden bench, song book in your hands,

folded paper program crinkling as it’s gripped too tight.

Low bellowing from the organ, underscored by

hushed voices whispering to one another.

The quick metal sound of zippers being pulled,

hats pulled on and keys jingling as they’re pulled out of pockets.

The trumpet sounds of cars unlocking, clunks of doors closing,

the local radio DJs voice briefly audible before windows rolled up.

Park in the small lot next to the cars you followed here.

A quick glance in the window to make sure your face is on right.

A murmured hello to someone you’ve seen but never met before,

tired smiles, coughing to clear the throat.

All trudge up the pristine dirt path, grass mown short to either side.

Carefully planted trees designed to provide shade

during a long service or an anniversary visit.

Wilted flowers laid at the feet of mossy stones.

Remembrances in the voices of the of not-crying,

flowers strewn on a smooth wooden box.

A final goodbye as the motor turns the winch

and the body is lowered into the earth.

Leaving one by one, touching the arm of someone 

you recognize as “family” though you don’t know their name.

Some leaving quickly, others lingering, comforted or

discomfited by these sorts of things.

Eventually we all descend. Someday this will be a green hill,

but for today it’s topped with fresh brown dirt.

Poem from “and some other third thing.” (The Weird Systers, 2023)