Corpus Delicti
Tell me who will put flowers on a flower’s grave? – Tom Waits
Twenty-five miles south of Verona,
the relationship people have with each other
and death has not changed much—
Two skeletons on their sides, grey humeri
clasping one another, patellae entwined:
An eternal embrace;
as if to say, we have no regrets.
Another lie.
I have no use for bones, unearthed
beliefs that we are not alone.
There is always blame.
The grave is an open mouth
refusing to swallow guilt.
No one is ever really saved—
This lingering qualm survives
whatever flowers we throw down.
by Adrienne Lewis-Wagner, Associate Department Chair of English,
Davenport University, Lansing, Michigan
