Mesquite

A little bird tsk-tsk’d me as I stood
up, four small stones in hand, near
dad’s gravesite. So few Jews here
in the memorial park—he would
like knowing we’d observed some
of the rituals, like placing stones on
his marker in remembrance, one
for each of us. Me. My brothers.
Mom. Every marker alike and not,
bronze (such an old, well-travelled
metal, wandering past Anatolia to
this New World desert), wording
raised up the way hope no longer
was. The bird flitted mesquite to
mesquite, chipping little sounds in
the air. And I bent down, touched
the dry spiral of a seed pod, traced
its curves—then took it with me.