Leather jackets cradling carnations,
roses, big plastic bottles
of beer,
rakia, fanta, all the
solitary marches,
and me along their side.
The same man circles the
periphery.
Bare head, windbreaker.
We chant izvinite as we pass.
Do I think love lurks in
cemeteries?
Do I believe in love?
Is there always free parking
at a funerals,
but not always free
bathrooms?
Some gravestones have the
simple ovals,
silhouettes in contrast, a people
united
in good, strong looks.
The photograph of Stefan’s
mother
head back, brown bottle.
Is that when Mitko decided to
love her most?
Did he see the confidence
of her sharp, full swig
and know right then
she was the truth?
New groups arrive
at the Sofia Central
Cemetary.
The women sellers hustle
bouquets in gentle tones,
the highway rushes past.
I will cry for my family
who I do not know how to
mourn,
and for the stranger etched
into stone
who leans against a white
sports car
with a golf club for a cane.
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