On takeoff, rows of soldiers' stones parry
memory, and warring wives lie buried
beside their men in recompense. The storied
combat, Custis-Lee Mansion, columbary
and marbled ranks, my mother and father
farther down the gentle slope. I imagine
them lying uneasy together deep in
their plot--as she faced one way, he the other
in bed at home. My guess is she hasn't moaned
a word these thirty years of rest, even mulled
a drink, but he's suffering without a ball
to hit, or her heart to call his own,
just as it was above ground, where she's won:
her name south, his name north, from one stone.