to read on weekend mornings
by the reedy little lake,
and afterwards clean off some graves
in back corners, you know those—
stones knocked over, lots of rubbish
and not even plastic flowers,
names forgotten years ago.
One morning as I picked up trash
here came across the grass and weeds
an old lady dressed in black,
not just dressed but gypsy costume
and a black sack in her hand.
“Would you like to look at something?”
she asked me, smiling. “Sure,” I said.
So she opened up her bindle—
pretty full of trash itself—
and took out an album cover,
man in profile, hair slicked back,
baby’s breath taped onto it,
also some girl’s photograph.
“Carlos Gardel. Do you know him?
Brought the tango to this country.
He loved me when I was young
and married me but in secret.
He died before the people knew.
Do you know me?” I said, “No.”
She said, “But you know my mother.
My mother, she loved Valentino.
When he died, each year she brought
many roses to his tomb.
Newspapers gave her a title,
Lady in Black, Mysterious.
I’m her daughter,” she said proudly.
I said, “I’m really glad to meet you,”
and I was though thought her crazy—
Personality Disorder,
Histrionic, I’d say now.
She said, “I could show you more,
if you wanted. Something good.”
She led me to a mausoleum,
one of the larger, and inside
I followed her past aisles of crypts
until we turned down one and stopped
where roses wilted in a vase.
“There he is, that’s Valentino.
When my mother was alive
every year she brought him roses.
Her love was stronger than his death.
Since she died I do it for her—
her love is stronger than her death.”
She laughed, offered me a blessing,
which I accepted gratefully.
This was thirty years ago.
Now the ground’s packed full of friends.
So I’m thinking I’ll go back there,
leave a rose for Valentino.
All the generations vanish
but I really like to think
something goes on anyway.
It needn’t appear sane to me—
that it doesn’t might be best.
The cemetery was the place
