It isn’t enough:
the cemeteries, the stones
in which the beloveds
are scratched into memory; and even where
there is water beneath the earth are
the pitched-roof tombs, not enough.
Give us more,
we say: the living, who desire.
when we ate of each other our sticky flesh,
as if we were two
men who could do that, two
Here’s my body,
you said. Do this, in remembrance of me.
Here’s my heart, I said. Just