In the graveyard by the
red church on Baptist road,
I took a walk with my uncle.

Here was longing
capsulated inside the ribcages
of corpses,
their toes grazing the grass'
roots.

I asked him if the dead could
talk
to each other.

Curiosity is not borne of age--
it flags. People go around
forgetting about
why.

Heaven was a question then, too,
but with a finite answer.

There a dream believed
became real,
a folded lily in my
white hands.