LITANY ON BEGINNING A BURIAL Poem by Menna Elfyn

A bit of dirt never did anyone harm, was grandma's belief -

Are all men's words like a blade of grass?

I arranged a burial today at daybreak.

The departed will be buried, with the other cats,
at the far end of the garden.

The herbs on the window sill will know nothing about it.

I shall lift the soil with my bare hands.

I shall talk to the snails after the final prayer.

Yes, Oh she'll have a decent burial.

Who knows, margaritas may be appropriate.

An anonymous traditional verse will be hummed, unaccompanied.

And yes, she will be happy in the waste ground and the isolation.

Who knows, she may joke to the ants that she started out this way.

And yes, we shall still celebrate her, like a miraculous birth that all at once died.

There will be a circle of sisters around her, to mimic the men-only funerals.

There will be a ban on tears, but sleet can fall quietly.

And we shall give thanks for her life, for birth, for care, for the tender nurturing.

And there will be a nestful of the valiant there, uncomplaining fledglings.

There will be no gravestone, but everyone will remember it was there that feminism was buried.

Everyone of her stock who has outlived her, a human family.