245 292
247
The Eyes of Keyholes
UBIAN BREZ
You are resting in peace on a hill above Sollefteå.
A beautiful cemetery. With the years and the frosts
the surface is wearing away, the letters on the stone
are growing shallower, the palm leaves in the hieroglyphs
of your name are fading. But it’s obvious you’re still
an outlander. In spring, when an invisible hand plants
new flowers in last year’s pots, municipal grass grows
around your head. That’s how I know that down here
in town your blood tingles in no one’s veins.
You are dust now. And when you are dust in one place,
you are dust everywhere. That way you’re returning home.
Perhaps by the same road, carrying with you the same
beauty and the same dangers so they can surprise you
in an unfamiliar place. That’s what I think, but on All
Souls’ Day, God’s garden comes alive, with the unseen
hand sending a multitude of candles to all those who are
resting in peace. At the foot of your gravestone, darkness
is alight. It is as if you were residing somewhere but
not getting mail. That’s how I know you have no home.