On That Hill*

On that hill, you are taller than the others
By a head. In the sea of glittering black
Marble, you are an island of earthy
White stone, sprinkled with tiny gray specks.

I am not pedantic, but on that hill,
I can't stand imperfection on your stone.
As soon as I arrive and drop my bag
On the bench nearby, my eyes begin

To hunt for twigs, or leaves, or stains left by
Birds in transit. My automatic hand
Carefully removes them, dusts the edges
And cleans the cracks with a sponge and a broom.

I think of all the cleaning you did
After me. Sometimes I look up at your
Picture (the one where you have an oval
broach on the collar) and meet the downward

Slope of your lips: not exactly sad but
Tracing the lines of a delicate defeat.
A bad day? Or the weight of a life
Beginning to get out of hand? Hard to tell,

On that hill, where only suns and stars
Alternate, and everyone keeps a secret.
Perhaps that's why, although it is utterly
Unnecessary, I still want your spot

Tidy, clean and impeccable, on that hill.

*Lesce Cemetery in Belgrade