At the Cemetery “Drowned together while playing with a sled on the ice of the Saw Mill Pond at Kensico. Dec. 5, 1871.” ---gravestone inscription She pauses here, what has been done? One stone in fact, yet three in one And there beneath, what does that say? Upon her knees as if to pray She reads the words that still retain The sharpest edge of searing pain; The crushing weight of timeless grief From which there can be no relief. Now knowing what it means to grieve She rises up and takes her leave And with her too, as she departs, These children’s parents’ broken hearts. They could have simply been interred But now their story has been heard. A Bat Flu Haiku The epicenter. Grave from which the brave have flown. Who dares to enter? We’ll Get Through This Together This massive but inviting door, I never found it locked before. So now upon these steps I kneel And still your presence, Lord I feel. Behind me breathes a living hell, Behind their masks, the fetid smell Of fear exhaled with every breath--- The walking dead, afraid of death. The world, I fear, will never see The obvious futility Of placing between You and me This heavy, oaken, bolted door That they may open, nevermore. That they may open, nevermore. Joe Tessitore is a retired New York City resident and poet.