WEBVTT

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This next poem is called
"Chopin's Funeral March."

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"Grandmother's mouth
vowels the air.

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The mother is not
underwater but under soil.

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No one surfaces
from under stones

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but the mother's daughter,
an heir to the living

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poke-grass and fresh dirt.

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Not underwater but under soil.

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No one surfaces,
except through hymns.

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And the day takes back
the living poke-grass

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and fresh dirt.

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Sleep croons a peaty
and unpleasant note.

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And except through hymns, when
the day takes back the phone,

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as it did what it was
asked, dialing 9-1-1-1-1,

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sleep croons a peaty
and unpleasant note,

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like a moth the granddaughter
swallowed, knowing nothing.

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A mother has no point of view.

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She's dead.

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The grandmother's mouth
vowels air, above a mother,

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cold in January rain, cold
in her bed under stones,

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and the mother's
daughter, an heir."

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