Say-Say Mobley


Never got remarried after her husband,
Little Bobby Ross, got burned up by the Japanese. 
He was sent home from Guadalcanal 
in a government-issue steel casket 
with a sign on it that said Do Not Open.
She did, of course.  Say-Say was a stubborn somebody.  
Her mama (Sarah Mobley Senior—we called her Lu-Lu, 
same as we call Say-Say Say-Say, not Little Sarah) 
said Child, don’t you open that box.
Begged her not to, got down on her knees and pleaded with her, 
but Say-Say was one to do what Say-Say wanted. 
She pulled that lid up, and what-do-you-think— 
there was nothing in there but a dog tag, 
a piece of helmet about the size of a butter plate, 
two hands and a pile of ash.  
Lu-Lu must have sat up every night for the next six months 
with a cold compress packed on top of Say-Say’s head, 
every light in that house turned up just as high as it would go.

Here's a video with a reading of this poem: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txGo8tPPtUs



Beside the Backhoed Earth


Spare me the folded flag, the white gloves, 
your re-worked sermon and brown gaze.

Send me a mother, one to match me 
boy for boy, loss for loss.  Let us 
talk girlfriends, caskets and favorite songs, 
compare the measure of children’s graves.  Let her 
climb with me into this one, defy the world to make us leave.

Show me what she keeps in her cardboard box: 
the pinewood derby car, the trophy, 
the bottle of sand from Venice Beach.  Or the picture 
beside the TV set, the uniform and crew cut, 
the closed door upstairs.  No, send me a mother,

not a speech, not a flag, not a cause or a reason, 
no personal note or comforting call. 
Send me someone who knows how to suffer, 
who grieves as I grieve and cannot sleep.

Here's a video with a reading this poem: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tqdCvBc5wSY

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