She Had Seven Siblings

May 23, 2008 - 17:50 PM PST

the rock falls, from her red mitten
to the sludge of dirt and ice and spring tears
on a pond, it lingers like the memory
of Tommy and George in their metal row boat
falling
prying screams like
frozen sand storms
caught in a glass cage:
fingers scraping through
the winter window
(their graves.)

she had five siblings
the mail dropped like goose eggs on wood
without a word from the carrier
plunk plunk: once
two letters came like tuxedo angels
in camouflage
as official as ink
on paper
stamped
with blood wax and their honour
in shell shock
open graves called then
like Uncle Sam did.
After the war
Leroy and Charlie may well
have crawled into
(their graves.)

she had three siblings
they grew black wings
like flies over the carcasses
too many hearts left torn
like salmon, fought over by gulls after spawning.
they smoke in the flaccid
Camel’s fumes
it eats what’s left for lungs
like old shoes and battery acid
corroding their dumpster bodies
that have become
(their graves.)