” Really, Haysus, it is no use
to sow seed in the soil near
the trellis where Cousin Alice pruned her roses.
The dirt there is somehow, tainted.
Growing anything there is, unlikely.
You might even uncover, among the stones,
sharp shards, pieces of the ceramic flower pot
dear Aunt Genevieve, in a fit of rage,
hurled at Uncle Harolds head.
He stood to close to Alice, the little slut.
A residual snit, ages old, really…
temper flare, rooted in the fading
O’Malley branch of our family, which,
over the last four generations has,
we can all hope, disappeared.
And then, there is the wool tweed jacket,
probably disintegrated, but one never knows,
and there will be,
still neatly arranged of course,
right where he fell,
his bones.”