Necropolis

Necropolis


Intense sunlight on marble, a white necropolis;
and a sea of flowers as decorated for a party
that will not happen. A deep hole, in dry earth,
awaits… The living too are silent here, speaks
with hushed voices, children are absent, dogs
not allowed, which makes sense, a paradise of
bones. Bird song. I can see the bay, it is azure
as the sky. Her fathers name in gold, on marble,
João, died at sixty, she remembers him as old,
he always wore a dark suit, hat and tie. We are
both older than her father now, dressed in jeans
and lemon yellow shirts, we don’t feel aged; had
her old man seen us now he would have frowned,
scolded and treated us as wayward teenagers.