Hanging from the Trees

I was born mostly monkey. Here's some stuff.

Cemetery Strawberries

Not old enough (not yet)

to appreciate gravity (the
adults say) that pulls corpses,
relatives, any forever down.

“But I fell–don’t you

remember?”
“It’s not that fall
that counts.”
“But I count–don’t you
remember?”

Dear Aunt Liz, sweet

angel, working on a grave,
spotted red spotted ground,
not many blooms left.

“Not many blooms left,” she

said. “Wait under that tent.”
Shade under that tent
shielded an un-dug grave.

“I dig these berries.”

“I picked these berries.”

Little splattered juice wounds

pocked a ripped wreath
box lid–a banquet tray
wild as the wildest fruit.

“Give us more.” Still eating.

“More. More.” Still eating.
They stopped work & gave
shade to the final helping.

“No more?” Still eating.

“No more.” Still eating.