Thoughts About A Memorial Montage
No, this is not where she’s interred.
This is but a pale cenotaph
That signs toward what’s referred.
We do not know what rock or tree
She’s deep or shallow buried by,
Or in what fresh green meadow damp
Or desert dry with shifting sands.
Neither have we facts about the how
Or of what incident she died.
We have only this marker made
Of resin, paint, and gauze and wood
Representing what some marker
Elsewhere said wherever it stood.
She is but a vague suggestion
Now, called by a three letter name,
Revisiting the story that
Was her, for those few who loved her,
If they did, remembered in thoughts
Of pride or shame all related to
Whatever face she had for each,
Dimensioned for their unique needs
Know who’s really there, only our
Conjecturing of who they are
In our relations had with them.
Thus here she lies, as a painted specter
Sideways on a wall, not even
Near where her body unknown lies
Removed in place and name remote
From her final place of real estate.
by Anton Nemeth