Linda Rochester - A Love Affair with Place:A Tomb for an Egg
That buzzard slapped his big black
wings in retreat as he heard
our feet crush the undergrowth.
The place we came to see,
a tomb, rarely visited for these
hundred-eighty some odd years.
Up the hill we'd climbed, our hands grasped sticks and limbs.
Up our legs struggled against the tangle of weeds and briars.
Our tired feet arrived upon the tomb of R. Harlan,
trader, settler, early pioneer.
Tombs don't vary much out here,
not tombs for important men,
flat rocks stacked waist-high,
in place, tight, only the top crumbled,
crumbled under the weight
of all that weather,
all those years.
No stench of anything a buzzard might eat.
R. Harlan has been long gone,
not a morsel left nor bones.
The only thing to see-
this monument of smooth rocks,
precise in shape and size,
tedious selection and labor
of moving all the weight to the hill top,
the outward sign of reverence felt by those
beneath the smaller headstones all around,
stones we agreed now
marked the graves of R. Harlan's family.
R. Harlan settled this land
before the removal of the Creek Indians.
It was here the land and slave owner,
lived, fought, and died.
The only thing left of Harlan now is
his name on mailboxes placed in front of
shanties, trailers, brick homes, mansions,
the occupants inside, no kin, they claim.
They told us little lies about Master Harlan's name:
that the slaves took it in honor of such a great man,
that the Indians took it out of respect.
They whispered about the rest-
the creamy brown Harlans,
the taffy Harlans with dusty brown hair,
the Harlans with high cheekbones,
the Harlans with dark red tans.
And then there were the white Harlans-
the ones who lived in big houses,
drove expensive cars, attended college.
All his descendants forgot the old man,
his life, his tomb, all those red, white, and black,
who equally shared his name.
From the limb of a distant tree,
we felt the buzzard's eyes bear down.
Greedy ole boy, he knew he'd out-stay us,
he'd wipe the slate clean if he could,
however foul the carrion.
It was when we leaned over
to look inside the tomb,
that we knew the secret,
that we understood the worry,
the eyes watching,
what was hidden and why.
The he bird is a she, someone said in surprise.
That she buzzard's had the last word:
she's laid her egg on R. Harlan's heart.
