Why are they separated from the rest of us?
I ask my grandmother who does not meet my gaze,
but grabs my hand as we walk through the dirt path.
I am following along from our way to the Round House
pulling up my fuchsia skirt as we walk ahead.
That is the way of our ancestors, how it has been.
Each headstone is separate from the others, no
flowers or trinkets on their graves—a gate separating
the few from the other relatives buried beneath trees.
Sinners cannot be buried with the rest of us.
She places her hand on my back, until we approach
a grove of redwoods, an ocean stretches out further
than we both can see, the clouds no longer in view.
