By Daniel Gene Barlekamp

The water and the weeds
have taken over
this place.
Islands of graves
dot the surface—
an acre here,
a plot or two there—
in all directions.
Granite headstones
turn black with moisture
where the current laps
their bases.
One can only wonder
what lies below:
soggy coffins,
barnacled bones.
By my side,
I find a friend
I haven’t seen
in years.
I think
he might
be dead,
perhaps searching for his place
among the graves.
Together we wade
through the water.
Some spots are deep,
others
shallow.
I need
to watch
my step.
I can’t swim.
At last we reach the gate
where the water ends
and the concrete begins.
On the other side
of the bars,
people do the things
the living love to do:
watch fireworks,
go to Target.
We look on.
I reach for my friend’s wrist
so I don’t lose him again,
but he has already
drifted
away.
With nowhere else to go,
I turn inward
and try to find my way home.