For Rudolph, Beverly, Henri, Alice, Garrett, Angel, Pratibha, Kiietti, Arbie

My mother
For instance
Whose
Cheekbones
Greet me
From
A
Recent
Photograph
Of myself.

My father:
Those eyes
In the
Mirror
I would
Recognize
Anywhere.

My brother's
Tree,
That he planted
Years
Before
He
Was
Planted
Himself,
Is awash
In light
Robustly
Proclaiming
His
Vivid
If
Persistently
Mysterious
Presence.

My grandparents
Henry
& Rachel
Whose voices
Are
perpetually
Murmuring
Sweet nothings
In my
Heart.

Look!
I say to all
Of them:
The cousins
&
The
Outside
Children
Too -
I have
Brought
Friends!

We sit
Content
&
Munch
Our
Veggie salad
& Forbidden
Potato
Chips
Sitting
Serene
Amongst
Your graves.

You are silent.

A granddaughter
My niece
Who cares
That your
Graves
Are kept
Clean
As she
Has always
Known
Them,
Lowers
Her
Shapely
Form
To rest
On an Army Veteran's
Tombstone.

So many
Of you -
I had not noticed
This before -
Went off
To fight
Strangers!

Returning
Wounded
Dead
Or
Strangers
Yourselves.

You are quiet, too, as we sit
Munching
Our lunch.

But are
You really
Dead?

Are you not
Perhaps
The reason
I have no
Enthusiasm
Patience
Or admiration
For war?

You,
The
Poor
Dispossessed
Cannon
Fodder

Safer behind
The mule
You
Left
Than
Behind
Any
Gun?

My friend
Pratibha (her name means genius in her
Original language
Which is Hindu)
Brown
Indian
British
With
An accent
That
Would
Have
Made
You laugh
(as your own Southern country accent
Amused many)
Films
Us all
Sitting
Talking
Eating
Laughing
Being with
You,

As you
Play dead.

Later in
The van
Leaving
Your place
Of enchanted
Rest
We marvel
At who
Life
Has put into
Our vehicle.

Old friends
By now
Really
Because
Of you.

There is
No other
Explanation
Though
You
May
Continue
Your little
Afterlife game
Of
Playing dead.