Not Waiting for Anyone

Someone who wasn’t
Remembered a year
After dying young

In a small village,
A nomadic band,
Or a chattel slum,

More than one someone,
Left behind a corpse
That wasn’t consumed,

Wasn’t cremated—
Accidentally
Endured in the ground.

They’re out there. They’re still
Out there, like Ötzi,
Like the Ice Maiden,

Like the Bog People,
Like the Plague victims,
Only quieter

Even, even less
Noteworthy, still real,
The real accidents

Of preservation
Left of dying lives
No one will dig up,

No one stumble on,
The ones you won’t find
Whose faith doesn’t count,

Whose national myth
No longer exists,
Of little interest

Even to science,
Rare but too standard,
Uninformative,

Too damaged, some bones
Some soil simply holds
Of beings who spoke.