in the cemetery, the night before the day of the dead

the breeze brings memories of the dead, chats and chortles, but work is done until daylight puffs out because there are tombstones to clean and faces to paint, children to decorate in halloween, in skulls or flowers, so let the men debate sports and politics while the engines keep churning to keep traditions from falling out of favor, where most traditions would go if it wasn't for a mother to protect them, unless they have to do with killing or medals, at which time a man is only too glad to snap to attention; but for making the cemetery into a flowery display, fuck that, the males congregate around the results from the futbol or the scandals in the Mayor's office, unless it is their woman, their mother maybe, or hopefully Heaven forbids it their daughter, lying in memory beneath the stones, under the dusty soils and broken shreds of last year's celebrations of the day of the dead, in which case the man turns poet and bends to the task, choking tears and coughing for breath . . .