Clutched key dangles from
its stamped wooden block –
Elkas Funeral Home.
My dowsing rod,
it searches out cemetery,
snakes me
through crescents of aging bungalows
up the hill to the lock
waiting below black
wrought-iron script:
Agudath Achim,
a congregation of ghosts,
synagogue now Baptist-filled.
The gate pushes inward,
rustles against dry leaves,
a crisping of snow.
Thirty-two years since my father’s death
on December’s last day,
no strength left to cross the threshold.
Three years since my mother’s death.
My body is becoming hers,
rushing to join her in old age.
In a cemetery alone,
solid ground turns to quicksand.
