Unison

We’re heading out to dig up Abigail.
Statistically, she has been dead thirty-seven years.
Died at fifty-two of an unwound heart
And was put to earth by a mournful husband
Who two years later married a woman
Half his age. No matter.
Of late the rains have not been what we need.
A month ago it was too much rain,
So we dug up George Kimble, put a stake
Through his heart, cut off the head
And finally burned the body for good measure.
Before that it was the aphis and Christina Lot.
Not that any part of it is a particular disaster,
But this is far better than thinking we have
To wait the weather out, withstand the pests.
No matter what we do no doubt it will turn out all right:
Somehow the species has come this far.
But we keep ourselves busy trying
To make it seem like our troubles
Even minor are somehow supernatural.
So, Saturday night, a few beers down and
The younger crowd making a date of it,
We will bring the body up, commit the ritual
And know that in the overall order
We have assigned the blame and settled
The physics of our discomfort
Together.

Copyright 1998 Yarrow