listen to her speak about life’s
shadows and all we do
in search of love. We talk

about all that is buried
that we live with daily.
The undertaker’s daughter

sells homes and buries
St. Francis statues
under each one she sells.

There’s one buried under
yours, she tells me.
There is too much sewn

into the unknown for me
to ever believe I’m not
supposed to be right here,

for one reason or another
living this poem, channeling
all that this world holds sacred.

If there are stories, they must
be told, wherever they are from,
lullabies must be sung, to keep us

alive, to keep our heads
above the bubbly, the gossip,
a darkening sky. I hold

onto honesty. Even if I can’t
make sense out of my own
hungers, in this moment,

I listen to the ways she gives
of herself, find my compassion,
room to unbury lost songs.