Geese in an American Graveyard
Poem
I visited an aunt’s dead husband today. Muslims have specific burial rites which include strict timelines to prevent disease and to promote community. Follow-up visits occur so the bereaved, often a wife but sometimes a husband or mother, can share stories about the dead and gradually process grief.
Everyone knows upon death, others will look after their family members, who will serve Medjool dates and cardamom tea to guests. A bit of responsibility means no one can wallow alone, and by the time the final black soirée is complete, the dead and the living gain dignity. Often, each year thereafter, friends of the deceased pick up the surviving spouse, return to the burial plot, and touch the gravestone while speaking to the dead. Today, during our visit, Cackling Geese roaming the grounds stopped eating grass and began honking.
At first, the cause of the honking was unclear, so I stared at the two loudest bellowers to investigate. After a minute, they flew 200 feet across the road to another patch of grass more empty than mine but containing other geese. The largest Cackler, after a running start, lurched in the air and flapped its wings against a smaller Cackler, who retreated several feet, then returned the gesture. By now, the smaller geese from my side also began honking, then flew to the other side. Only the largest geese commenced aerial attacks, and the geese on the other side eventually flew to another patch. The aggressive geese—whom I could not tell apart from the other geese—began eating the grass on the other side, but not in the area of battle, as if they sensed contamination. The geese did not appear happier after their unnecessary excursion and indeed, seemed lonelier than when they were on my side. Perhaps they knew at any moment, the geese they attacked could return.
28 days ago, the government of Israel attacked Iranian civilians.
© Matthew Rafat (March 28, 2026)
Dedicated to the children of Shajarat-e Tayyebah girls’ elementary school in Minab, Iran.