Their names came to me
not by pony express
not taped to soft butterfly wings
not scrawled across the sky
by some mad skywriter from hell
They came writ on the back of a church bulletin
sent by a friend’s elderly mom
Folded three times over
Licked and stamped with great care
‘Deceased’ filled the left-hand column
‘Still Alive’ short-stopped the right
Five names lingered there

These town elders…
The men and women who helped raise me
who taught me who discovered America
who sang hymns with my mother
who carried my father’s casket,
sat by my mother’s urn
The heart of my hometown ripped out
Their funerals, for me now so sudden
Like a shushed whisper in church
or blades of grass trampled
by the fierce afternoon rain

Pris Campbell
©2007

Published in 
The Dead Mule: An Anthology of Southern Literature  2007

Also nominated by that journal for a 'Best of the Internet' print poetry anthology for 2007. Decision still pending.

Art: Calla Glow by Philip DeLoach
copyrighted and used with permission



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