PERSONS OF THESE OSSUARIES​

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After midnight, my mother
appears in my doorway.
She has on her overcoat
and holds her purse close
to her chest. Her eyes
shine in the shadows
like tiny blue lamps.

“We have to go,” she says.
When I say nothing,
she steps into my room.
“We have to go,” she repeats.

I don’t ask her where.
I don’t tell her there is
nowhere to go at this time.
I don’t say, “Go back
to bed, Ma.” I dress.

I put on my coat,
get my car keys.
“It’s cold out there, Ma.”
She blinks. Her fingers
squeeze her black purse.
“It’s dark,” she says.
“Why is it so dark?”

We drive to the cemetery
where my father and my
grandmother lie buried.
The gravestones half-shine
in the silver moonlight.
We don’t exit the car.
We sit for a few minutes.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

On the way back she chuckles.
“It’s dark out,” she says.
“I know, Ma,” I say,
suddenly feeling silly.