I’m at Cotton Mather’s tomb in Boston—
it’s part of the burial ground on Copp’s Hill:
there’re more Death’s Heads here than men or women.
The woman with the stroller waits for her husband,
moving from headstone to headstone, to have his fill;
I’m at Cotton Mather’s tomb. At Boston
Harbor, my wife and I had lunch, walked Charlestown
Bridge (a woman sold water, dollar a bottle)—
there’re more Death’s Heads here than men or women.
I don’t know him, except that he believed in sin,
hoped they weren’t wrong at the Salem witch trials—
I’m at Cotton Mather’s tomb in Boston.
I’m wearing my black Ralph Lauren 100% cotton
polo made in Vietnam (half price in Marshall’s):
there’re more Death’s Heads here than men or women.
I’m thinking of Eco’s Inventing the Enemy—one
essay in particular, which gives the book its title—
I’m at Cotton Mather’s tomb in Boston.
There’re more Death’s Heads here than men or women.