Gerringong Cemetery. By Michael R. Griffiths

There’s a certain nonsense that disturbs the dead.

    As we pile in,

    exiled past the ablution blocks,

    roused by the warm still breeze,

    Nick strums an adlibbed 

pigeon tune while

the whole messy lot of us

arc up, join in,

tongues wet with white wine

            or tickled with malt.

   

It’s a solid tune

that bounces off marble and stone

under the milky whorl of stars,

Orion’s gut

(Roj says), busts bloating out of his belt.

Pete spits pickled lines 

in half remembered Krakow jive— 

Marco Polo melodies, we chew collectively 

like Slav toffee.

There’s a certain nonsense 

for which the dead crave wickedly to turn.

Michael R. Griffiths lives with his partner and a spoodle in Marrickville, Sydney, Australia. He has published poetry in Paper Nautilus, Mascara Literary Review, and the Rye Whiskey Review. He teaches at the University of Wollongong.