William Doreski’s poems featured this week over at Underfoot
At the Grave of Randall Jarrell
The clunk and rasp of building
a wood fire distracts but warms me.
You love the grunt and groan of chores,
talking to the cats, paying bills
we can’t afford to pay. Meanwhile
I’m picturing a pair of cypress
almost doubled over with ice
in a North Carolina graveyard.
A young woman shakes off the shards.
They clatter onto the grave
of Randall Jarrell, beloved
husband and father. Not named
as the author of “The Death
of the Ball Turret Gunner,”
whose pulped remains still linger
in every deliberate reader’s mind.
The wood stove hisses and smirks.
Jarrell walked into the path
of an oncoming car and died
in a crush and rupture of parts.
The woman sprinkling fragments
of ice on his grave has grown old
enough to measure the distance
from here to North Carolina
in years instead of mileage.
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