This is not a poem

It’s vacant here except for hundreds of stone boxes
above a yellow floor of sand.
No trees anywhere for a bird to perch on.
Inside each box, two hands,
or maybe one,
or maybe no hands;
one leg, two legs
or maybe no legs;
a head, or none; a chest,
or a smashed one;
or none at all.

All of the body parts
we learnt about at school
or touched with love.
A box may fit the size of a corpse.
It may be bigger. It could be empty.

My grandfather, I don’t know where your grave is,
but your wheelchair is surely not inside.
It must’ve rusted or was sold as steel and plastic.

My brother, I know you’re sleeping in one,
but I’ve never searched for it.
Not sure if I will.
Your heavy breathing once
led me to your place when electricity was cut.
But not anymore.
I cannot tell if they inscribed your name
on your gravestone, if there is
a gravestone, if you’re still in your grave.
I’m not sure. You could be watching us,
watching me
writing this.

But what is this?
Not a poem.
This may be a gravestone
for someone not yet born.