What the Angels of Bonaventure Know

The stones lean in

to hear your name

as you pass.

The moss sways —

not from wind,

but from listening.

This is a place

where the dead

expect you to behave.

They never buried the whole truth —

only the parts

that made them uncomfortable.

White angels still guard stolen ground.

The air smells of magnolia

and rot.

The women are here —

not weeping.

They are watching.

Marble skirts gather moss in their pleats,

hands folded,

mouths packed with silence

they were never asked to break.

They have been waiting centuries

to be asked

what really happened.

Even the sun

filters through

like it has been told to hush.

Tourists whisper without knowing why.

Something older than grief

hums beneath the ivy.

I saw a girl in white —

hands clasped around a book.

I thought it was a prayer.

It was a story

she had written

and never got to finish.

I left a pen at her grave.

Just in case.