Jared Carter Poetry

Monument City

How I came to that leaf-shadowed house by the river—
        late-summer afternoon rain falling long into evening—
To visit a favorite aunt, who had asked the undertaker—
        his blue pickup truck pulled off just under the willows—

To take photographs of the house, and the gardens,
        and the parlor—with us in it—one last time
Before the waters began to rise, and scavengers came
        to pick over the buildings too big to be moved—

She had seen his truck parked all summer in the churchyard
        on the far side of the covered bridge, with a tent
Pitched first over this headstone, then that, until
        he and his helpers had taken them all up again, like bulbs,

And planted them on higher ground, in a cemetery
        provided by the government.  An old friend of his—
This woman with gray braids piled on top of her head,
        who had lived on the corner across from the monument

And taught school thirty-five years until consolidation.
        He still lived on the second floor of the funeral parlor
Down at the crossing, that had been a feed store once,
        in his father's day.  Had carried two wives

Out through those double doors, and a son, to the churchyard.
        He brought with him now a box camera on a wooden tripod
And sat with us there in the parlor till nightfall, waiting
        for the rain to stop, for there to be some light—

How I came to be there that time I cannot remember, only
        walking out to the flowers, at dusk, with the two of them,
Into air fresh from rain, and thunder far away, to the east,
        and lightning that showed us a path through the tall grass.
from Work, for the Night Is Coming [credits]
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