Here lyeth . . . (Sarah?) Drake beneath
the floor,

a Persian carpet lapped across her stone

so all you see is –rah, and Cambridgeshire,

and that she was the cherished wife of someone

who caused her to sleep before the altar

like Samuel, given up to night and God.

Mutely, being dead, she bears the thurifer

who stands on her and swings his silver pod

of incense like a pendulum. What time

is it, six feet down? How long did they

tell her the wait would be? And is her name

written where it matters, legibly,

or will we all, given the same name—Dust—

forget at last who was forgotten first?

—Sally Thomas