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| not a hill more like a mound a plot of dead |
| land a patch of dirt and newly planted grass |
| laid out in this cemetery which spreads itself |
| like a quilt here on this patch just one week |
| before Memorial Day no not a week nine days |
| to be exact May 19 2001 here I sit on this patch |
| of dirt and newly planted grass something sacred |
| now because of you something which calls me back |
| from Minnesota back two thousand miles to the |
| Notre Dame Cemetery 1540 Stafford Road |
| Fall River Massachusetts Lot 73 Section 2 |
| to a tombstone marked Viveiros your mother’s |
| maiden name – who was it that once told me |
| that we Portuguese are really immortal that |
| death is just a phase we go through – how I wish |
| I could believe that now how I wish I could |
| believe that here on this same plot of dirt |
| and grass I visited nine years ago |
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| There are flowers here for you flowers by your |
| plot many flowers tell me someone else has |
| visited you recently it was someone else not I |
| who left these flowers you see today instead I |
| hold a pamphlet of the Rules and Regulations |
| of the cemetery rules and regulations that say |
| all flowers placed at grave sites become the |
| property of the cemetery and will be used to |
| beautify the grounds and I think to myself |
| were you not enough to make this somber |
| place more beautiful were you not enough |
| that they need to take your flowers too I’ve |
| given them enough they do not need the flowers |
| you dear Jim were enough I’ve given them you |
| but who was it who visited you last who else could |
| never forget the meal you fed me at that restaurant |
| on Thayer Street when my thumb was sliced |
| and sutured and bandaged so that I could not |
| even lift my fork or the way your shoulders |
| moved up and down like a man on a string |
| whenever you laughed or the beauty mark on your right |
| cheek which charmed the world like a newborn |
| babe or your eyes two chestnuts always looking up or |
| up to something was I not enough for you Jim |
| who else but I visited your classroom pretending |
| to take notes on the science of instruction instead |
| writing love poems which would never be read aloud |
| and who but I Jim shivered when you winked as your |
| students called you Mr. Correia who else Jim who else |
| visited you when you shriveled away and who asked |
| why do you watch the home shopping club so |
| much and you replied it’s the only company I |
| have these days and now even now who else |
| but I stretch themselves upon this patch of land |
| your little plot of earth and offer themselves to you |
| just six feet above nine years later at this |
| cemetery plot two thousand miles away and |
| whisper prostrate arms stretched in crucifixion |
| Jim, dear Jim, you left this world too soon! |
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| At this moment I want the world to stop turn |
| my gaze to the wind which blows east toward |
| the ocean cresting somewhere off these shores |
| I want to stop time for just a few moments I |
| want to but never could stop time instead the |
| ocean is cresting still the same way it did on |
| July 28 1992 at 17 Brigham Street in Rumford |
| Rhode Island the ocean is cresting still as if the |
| shores have suddenly forgotten what to do |
| Jim, I cannot stop this crest. |
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