Neighbors

She did not know
how long it had been ten o'clock -
ever since last week
when the neighbors
refused to stand
on the porch
knocking on the door any longer.
They just want to come in
and look at things
her brother said
and to maybe steal
gram's silver locket
or those maps
dad kept at the bottom
of his dresser.

They want to stare
at gram in her coffin
and guess how much it cost
and who picked out her dress.
And then they will see
there is nothing in the kitchen
but canned beans and radishes.
So they will go home
and cook lamb stew
and soup with spelt and marrow.

They will notice
you have not washed your hair,
that the pits of your shirt
are stained
and your hem drags
below your knees;
that the dogs have left
and the water
has been shut off.
Then they will want
to pack us off to total strangers
who change the syllables
in our names to something new
and we will go to school
every day,
our socks pulled up and clean
and church every Sunday
where we wil sit
with hands folded
and tell them how lucky we feel
to be left alive.