I lie beneath this rusted cross of curlicues,
surrounded by these muted churchyard hues,
alone among lichen-covered stones,
in the peaceful housing of my crumbled bones.
You’re imagining my life, how bright my smile
for parents, siblings, husband, perhaps a child;
you know my my name, the date when I was born –
and died – but no idea of those who mourned.
Kim M, Russell, 8th April 2021
My response to NaPoWriMo Day Eight
Our eighth challenge is inspired by Edgar Lee Masters’ book, Spoon River Anthology. Published in 1915, it consists of over 100 poetic monologues, each spoken by a person buried in the cemetery of the fictional town of Spoon River, Illinois. We are asked to read a few of the poems from Spoon River Anthology, and then write our own poems in the form of a monologue delivered by someone who is dead. I returned to a poem I wrote some years ago about a grave in our local village church, which I have re-imagined and explored as a monologue.