Cancer took her quickly. Now
cars of her procession
move like dark cells through
traffic of the Los Angeles Freeway,
a daily purgatory.
A silver military jet
becomes a needle of glare
that tugs a thread of chalky
vapor. The plane cruises
above faraway suede hills
well ahead of its sound.
And the family in its sealed,
air conditioned autos is driven
ahead of understanding.
A lavender dolphin, anchored
like a dirigible above a used-car
lot, smirks as they pass.
Her daughter runs a finger over
the upholstery. She thinks,
"It's just upholstery."
And at the cemetery, too,
everything has become
only what it is: asphalt, grass,
trees, people--the landscape
of a children's book.
Where they bury her,
upright headstones are forbidden.
Marble, granite, and brass must
be inlaid so tractor mowers
may keep grass immaculate.
Beneath a canopy near the dug
grave, the daughter looks toward
those old brown distant hills.
She wonders--as her relatives
whisper quietly and cry--why
the world seems to have been
completely prepared for
the death of her mother.
circa 1979/2021 hans ostrom
