Cave Hill Cemetery

Dave Harrity

Some say a beginning, others an end. Either way,
we are a window into earth: starched and quiet slate
of monuments, eroded annunciation of an angel’s face.

The graves are tidy, arranged repetitions for miles
in magnolias. We are silent: bustled jars against
the former lives and sparrows arrowing over the lake.

The answers are buried, and we wander. You wonder
if any of it ends. All leaves waxing out, seeded reds
shelling skins. Beneath ground, all touch is nothing.

No caravan of clouds above crosses—no black or gray
or white winnowed with speech. Our voices: slight lisps
with another in the twisting blond exit of summer.

Prompt

The repeated s sounds throughout this poem seem to evoke the hushed, mysterious voices—the slight lisps—beyond the grave. Choose a place to describe in a poem, focusing on how one repeated letter sound sustained throughout the lines can reflect a characteristic or mood.