by Beth Sherman

Headstones break apart easily, crumbling to chalky dust. Names
disintegrate, letters disappear. Piles of sad markers topple over,
flat as gray pillows under careless skies. A rough-legged hawk
circles overhead, surveying the damage indifferently: None
of the ghosts say a word. Tomorrow the relatives will file in,
searching for clues. Where is Nana Sadie’s grave? Where did Uncle
Morris go? Tomorrow, the papers will call it a hate crime and give
year-to-date vandalism statistics at Jewish cemeteries. Tomorrow I will
get a phone call and drive out there during my lunch break, a place I only visit
once a year on the yahrzheit of your death. I had yew bushes planted behind your
grave, added a small bench. Nice spot, you would say. Plenty of shade. On my
annual visit, I bring a book and a brisket sandwich. Pablo Neruda poems we used
to read to each other in bed. Sometimes I tell you about the kids. Sometimes I
don’t say anything at all. Feed crumbs to the sparrows. Think about coming more
often. Tomorrow, I will marvel that I have forgotten how to cry. But tonight,
there is only the threat of snow and the rumble of cars on a distant highway.
The hawk departs in search of mice, the moon a pasty white nickel. You have
been gone such a long, long time that your voice has faded to nothing and I can’t
remember how your skin used to taste. The wind moans in the bushes. The first
flakes begin to fall. And there is no one to sweep up the broken pieces of you.

Beth Sherman received an MFA in creative writing from Queens College, where she teaches in the English department. Her poetry has been published in numerous publications, including Hartskill Review, Lime Hawk, Hawaii Pacific Review, Gyroscope Review, The Evansville Review, Rust + Moth, Silver Birch Press, Zingara, Blue River Review and Calamus Journal. She is also a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee who has written five mystery novels. She can be reached on Twitter @bsherm36.