Mt. Hope
by Brad Craddock

Oak leaves, blush and pale, crowd our passing feet.
We pause to shush each other with quiet eyes.
My breath the withering wisp
of dragon smoke,
curling,
bends,
twisting toward this empty sky,
signals nothing.
You say you remember the smell of hickory,
wood smoke and pine,
the musk of woolen mittens,
phantom senses.

I care not to disturb these ghosts.

For me there is the lingering
caress of ash,
exhaust and the grip of cold, the sting
of raspberry red, frostbitten cheeks.
I huddle like a field mouse in my long black coat,
longing to hibernate through this on-coming winter.
Drawn to my body heat, you rutting buck, move closer.

I will step away and try to feel this feeble sun’s warmth.
My arms wrap
within these lifeless memories to touch and clasp
at air, at nothing.

We stand together upon the hill
and survey the quiet graves below.
Headstones report in whispering tones eternal devotion, death parted:
Beloved father, beloved mother;
Lasting pairs engraved on stone.
I try
to imagine your face
thirty years from now
lost in grey remembering, here in our final moment.
will I later recall your face at this funeral—
the raspberry red of your cheeks and lips,
the cloying smell of frankincense?
How crowded that satin box, that cave of earth hollowed out,
enough space for two
but covered over in a compost of leaves.
What wreath of scent could you hang here?
The sun has finally set.
How cold my hand.
How still my voice.