Читать книгу Planted by the Signs - Misty Skaggs - Страница 12

The Home Cemetery

We keep our dead

at the dead end

of a rutted gravel road.

Generations filed away

forever

in staggered rows.

They belong to me.

A birthright of last breath

And rotting body,

buried safely beneath

six feet of soil.

The dark soil

I came from.

Full grown and dirt poor.

This is my acreage.

Rich bottomland fertilized

by bone.

The cemetery floats,

a rounded island tethered

to the mountains

by creek-bed tombstones.

Dusted with broom sage.

Populated solely by lingering souls

and a stray, persistent

peacock

trespassing on my land,

picking his hungry way

over my graves.