My Grave by Lidija Dimkovska
Every day I watch my grave in the yard
included in the price of the house,
with a board over the hole,
with a tombstone of white limestone,
with a photograph in a gold frame,
and the year of birth separated by a dash
from the empty space for death.
The grave is there under the pear tree facing the house
staring at me even when I have my back turned to it.
In spring the cats loosen the board,
and sparrows in the tree shit on it for good luck,
in summer an occasional overripe pear
chips off a piece of the tombstone,
in autumn the rain thins its spine, bites its figure,
in winter the snow rams it deeper into the ground.
It’s the focal point of every thunderbolt,
of every earthquake—it’s the epicenter.
It crumbles, decays, decomposes,
it’s becoming ever smaller, more wizened, brought to its knees,
the grave is disappearing before my eyes,
it’s falling into its own hole, turning from dust to dust.
I look at it this morning, what’s left of it is no more
than a small pile of limestone being scattered by the wind,
broken shards of board big enough to build nesting boxes,
and the photo in its gold frame
flutters around the from-to dash. My grave is vanishing faster and faster,
just like my life.
Art by Kawase Hasui.
Recommended listening: Memory Boy – Deerhunter
Links of the Day: François-Henri Galland’s minimalstic watercolour paintings