They Will Not Eat the Bird of Paradise

but they will devour the rose, the foxglove,the lily of the valley, their flat teethscouring the crocus to a nubover cold names and dates. They will not eatthe bird of paradise, but they willcrouch on the cheat grass and mark the iriswith their urine, and lie on headstones,chewing their cud. After the gravediggers have wiped down their shovels,the furred shapes will rise at dusk frombehind the Walmart, hoovessinking into mud along Garner’s creek.Vinegar, garlic, black pepper,nothing stops their coming fromthe long grasses, the oldones scraping antlers, the youngtesting their milk teeth on weeds outsidethe embalmer’s window as he works lateto disinfect the body, shaving the faceso makeup won’t cake the fine hairs.And the nose arranged just so.And the anus plugged with cotton,the mouth filled with paste to makethe lips more pleasing. They will not eatthe bird of paradise, but an old ravagingwill sheer away the tulips and wild lavender.They will come from the woods aroundElkhart and Albion, the wideopen fields along Route 9, movingas the dead’s new dream of spring.Such relentless taking. They will not careabout grief, just sweet leaves and the dampsexual hearts of the flowers, all teethand tongues in a dark nightof acorn shells and amaryllis, endless mouths culling the perfumedbodies of carnation, clematis, the lilacbouquets lying heaped and leftnearly rotten by the January rain.