Descansos

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Along the interstates and county roads,
you see them, make-shift crosses, rudely nailed
slats, painted white, leaning, as if exhausted.

Bouquets of plastic flowers, photographs,
sun-bleached, rain-warped, and plush stuffed animals,
in silence, huddle, like saints beneath the cross

and remind us there’s life after our death.
Others will carry our names in their mouths.
For some, even strangers know where they died.

I’ve never raised a cross on a thin shoulder,
beyond the yellow line and rumble strips,
where the grass slopes down to the frontage road,

yet, they move me, these monuments to grief
and love. I wonder what were their names, age,
their favorite food. I never stop to look.

These shrines are meant for us, the passersby,
we who speed headlong to unchosen ends.
They remind us that all loss should be shared.

I keep them with me, interred in the lines
of this poem, words you read, take with you,
words we all hold, til we come to our rest.

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By Richard Stimac

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Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.
 

Descansos was first published in the US by SHINE.