Ground Level

The dearly departed are preserved forever
with granite stones to keep them down.
In gardens called Everest but not
Gethsemane they lie, and how happily, darlings

with their flattened names
of lawnmower men who ride.

It’s roughshod.
It’s time.
My grandfather is

just one small yard. I never come closer

than this.

Sometimes, nearly nothing
frightens me—my father says
he’s getting old, and I shiver.

Lightsey Darst

Lightsey Darst lives in Minneapolis, where she writes poetry and dance, art, and book criticism. Her recent work is published or forthcoming in The Antioch Review, The Literary Review, Quarterly West, and Crab Creek.