Keepers of the Dead

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In California, a young boy, weaned on just enough

Jesus and Hollywood, buries animals found dead

in his yard—mice and frogs and crow—

little crosses and clumsy benedictions,

in hopes of speeding their resurrection. 

At the Elkinsville cemetery, small stone slabs

mark the graves of the Folks boys—

four stillborn, unnamed, lie nestled next to two 

brothers, one who survived five days, the other a year, 

and the woman who died a childless mother of six.

One hundred years later, an orca carries her dead newborn 

thousands of miles, through waters rough and cold,  

pushing her calf to the surface with each breath, 

in a ritual of grief for us all to witness,

for us all to bear.

We are all keepers of the dead.  

My days speed with pains shared and solitary, 

and I try to outrun the undertow.

I cry for all the day I have wasted—

hour by hour, closer to my death.

Like cherries in August, I ache to burst with joy

before I rot in the ground.

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Heather Bourbeau’s fiction and poetry have been published in 100 Word Story, Alaska Quarterly Review, Cleaver, Francis Ford Coppola Winery, Short Édition, The Cardiff Review, and The Stockholm Review of Literature. Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, she is the winner of La Piccioletta Barca’s inaugural competition and Chapman University Flash Fiction winner. She has worked with various UN agencies, including the UN peacekeeping mission in Liberia and UNICEF Somalia.

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