It’s The Same And Expect No Different (from The Songs Of The Erinnyes, Sonnets, Odes, and Elegies by Jay Noya, Brigantium Press)

1

It’s the same and expect no different
The gravedigger told his wife
It’ll be the same when our turn comes
His wife set a plate of potatoes and carrots on the table
And a second ornately adorned oval dish of sausages and cauliflower
And when the woman sat down the gravedigger was chewing
Not dissimilarly to the way he cracked the ground
And the way he scraped away the softer loam with a spade
From the edges of a trench bending the length
Of his muscular legs and torso and neck over the task
His eyes lethargic with tedium and the repetitiveness
Of his motions and his thoughts
And the flinty nature of his silence
Which returned and overwhelmed him at the dinner table
The gravedigger masticated and his wife listened to his grinding teeth
And the work of his pipes and she could discern the progress
Of the sausage and potatoes and cauliflower going down
And when she had immersed herself in her thoughts
And filled her own mouth with sausage and potato
And when there was a sudden pleasant vacuum about her
A loud snort followed by a grunt and something
That wasn’t laughter and wasn’t merriment
Something that was inhuman but had originated
From the depths of the gravedigger’s chest
Aided by diminutive instruments in his head
And fashioned into something odious
By the larynx and the walls of his mouth
The gravedigger snorted and lifted his head
And repeated to his wife
With a finger pointed to the ceiling
It’ll be the same you know
And expect no different you know
When our turn comes it’ll be like that


2

The gravedigger didn’t have to remember much
And didn’t care for memories for the sake
Of knowing where he’d been and what he’d seen
He came and went as he pleased
And his wife had no say in the matter
The gravedigger protected and valued his independence
It didn’t matter to him that the days
Were bursting at the seams with strife and grief
And the rest was doubt but what did he care about doubt
He hadn’t any doubts about his own employment
He hadn’t any doubts about his days and nights
He hadn’t any doubts about his stomach and his head
He’d willingly shout and swear his derisions at anyone
He’d willingly admit what went into his stomach
And what portions of what he saw and lived went into his head
The gravedigger had nothing to conceal
He had his job and went to it gladly before dawn
Six days a week and already he’d been at it thirty-two years
Thirty-two years of burying the dead
Thirty-two years of forgetting the boxed corpses
He’d shoved into the ground and covered them
By dint of exertion and concentration with pick and shovel
And left them there to rot year after year
He confided to his wife that the ground swelled
And reeked with years of rotting cadavers and rotting secrets
It’s always been like that you know
So expect no different when your turn comes
It’ll be exactly like that you know
You’ll rot in the ground and your secrets
And what has been your life shall rot as well
There’ll be nothing to remember and nothing to regret
It’ll be exactly like that you know
So expect no different when your turn comes


© J. Noya, 2006