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Boneyard


ISSUE:  Spring 2020

 

Like heat he seeks them,
            my son, thirsting 
to learn those

he don’t know
            are his dead—
some with his name

carved in the stones
            he leaps on
& between. Their fake

flowers will outlive
            even doubt. 
Beside the boneyard

six men nail & saw
            together a house, 
their lumber

sliced even, still
            golden. They build
a kind of heaven,

chipping in—something
            all yours, the neighbors
honking hello 

as they roll by,
            no rush, envious—
wondering under

their breath how long
            will paradise take
& whether you’ll finish

in this lifetime.

 

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