Unloading my head in the cemetery

In the heart of my new concrete city
a cemetery hides, in a high black wall.
Above it, great trees rub their boughs
dismayed that nothing lives outside.

Something happened here, centuries ago
so terrible the prefecture authorities
closed the wall without a gate?
Why? I ask. Everyone looks away.

Since coming here, I never sleep.
Whenever I lie down, painful memories
ferment, and almost burst my head.
Instead, I walk all night
around and round that wall.

One night in my frenzied pacing
I found a huge crack in its base.
I felt the cemetery had heaved a sigh
and opened a mouth for me.
Curious, I squeezed myself inside.

Tree-trunks were arching through the graves.
Creepers tangled with the sky.
Moon-black eyes surrounded me: the ghosts.
"Give us honey" they begged "before we starve."

I saw the ancient tombstones
gleaming white and smooth
still waiting for inscriptions.
No gates; no epitaphs.

Every night I bring a pot of honey
I feed the whispering ghosts
and carve my overflowing memories.

At first I used a knife
then found I could cut
quicker with my eyes.
Anguished memories burn deep into the stone.
And as they flow gradually out of my head
the pressure and the pain recede.

While I stare each line in marble
sympathetic ghosts gather round
to study the tracks of my past.
"Kanji or kana?" they mockingly inquire.

I plunge my hands in honey.
They slurp it from my fingers
with unseen delicate tongues.

As I complete the transfer
of each painful incident
and move to the next blank stone
all the ghosts follow me,
dancing, groaning, miming, moaning.
I see only their eyes and translucent heads.
"Stop haunting us" they tease.
They hang back, honey-lipped.

"When are you moving in with us?"
calls one. The others laugh:
a sound like rain on leaves.

It's the other way round, I inform them:
"You're living in my memory now
in a corner of my head."
They giggle again, and taunt me: "No!
We're much better off staying dead."

Dennis List