Ute Cemetery

Gravestones lean every which way,
some, uprooted, lie flat. Grass
contests with weeds, the fence of
split rails unmakes itself
where the posts rot. A clump of
fireweed blazes beside stalks of
lupine as if neglect could not
erase all memorials. One wooden slab
says, ‘‘Soldier, 25th Infantry,
Illinois.’’ Death does not need
his name. All the Indians lie heaped
under a long mound, not even marked
‘‘Warrior.’’ Here passion sleeps
in the graves. The yells and cries,
the hot bullets of Meeker Flats
awake no echoes, rouse no memories,
speak only from yellow pages
of an old newspaper. Life became
death with no meaning for today’s
tourist. No one remembers the bitter
struggle, the lost cause, the bravery
in victory and defeat. No one even
remembers the cemetery.