Calavera
by Kym WilsonHe waits in a field of marigolds, lush and complicated
Straightening his jacket, smoothing his hair
Thinking of the time he whipped the boy for not looking after his sisters.
Coffee cup in hand, it's been so long since it was filled
By the warmth of drink and kin.
Walking amongst the candles, flickering in the fragrance
Of bread and sugar and blood and earth,
A feast of the living and the dead, together at the table he built
From the roots of a felled family tree.
Hushed words of distant households, quiet hands working to clear ground
Songs sung in voices older than mountains and deeper than wells,
All falling down around him like the ash of his ancestor's bones,
Put his mind at ease, put his name on stone
Wife and only son coming home.
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