by Cindy Adame
By the shallow unmarked grave
of my dearest childhood friend,
I sometimes sit and ponder.
I know the bones lying here
will slowly mold away, and all
my brightest memories, like her
I smell her in the dirt,
draw her straight into my brain
and wait for her to hit—
but there’s no euphoric lift.
And all the silly, whispered secrets
behind grass-stained fingers, into
ears that smelled of ivory soap and only heard
the sound of Hope and Joy, are gone.
I’ve waited for the lame to walk,
the blind to see, the dumb to talk—
I want to see the dead rise again.
Not this sad exhumation
of her badly beaten corpse.
About the author
Cindy Adame was born in Phoenix Arizona, but has spent most of her adult life in Bakersfield California. Recently retired, she has decided to pursue a lifelong passion to write. Being both a mother and grandmother, she has a rich source for her poetry and children’s books.