This next poem is called "Chopin's Funeral March."
"Grandmother's mouth vowels the air.
The mother is not underwater but under soil.
No one surfaces from under stones
but the mother's daughter, an heir to the living
poke-grass and fresh dirt.
Not underwater but under soil.
No one surfaces, except through hymns.
And the day takes back the living poke-grass
and fresh dirt.
Sleep croons a peaty and unpleasant note.
And except through hymns, when the day takes back the phone,
as it did what it was asked, dialing 9-1-1-1-1,
sleep croons a peaty and unpleasant note,
like a moth the granddaughter swallowed, knowing nothing.
A mother has no point of view.
She's dead.
The grandmother's mouth vowels air, above a mother,
cold in January rain, cold in her bed under stones,
and the mother's daughter, an heir."