A Graveyard on a Hill in Vermont

As a child, I made a list of all the names I knew
and had ever known.

Lois and John and Howard, Gage and Maude
There were two Margaret’s and one Mildred.

After each name I paused, guilting the ink from
my half-melted black pen, hand clammy-wet,

then shaking it hard onto the bright, white page,
ink splattering like leaves, dropping slowly,

all old and brown, from having stayed on the
tree for far too long.

And then I remember Vermont, on a hill, black
metal fence caging us in the day we scrubbed

Names from charcoal and thin, chewy paper
rain falling whenever we pressed and later

hot summer sun rising and breaking through
thick clouds whenever we stopped to break.

Wondering if they wanted to be remembered
or simply left alone.