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photo © 2017
jennifer wagner
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a
fourteen-year-old finger
has
written R.I.P.
on
the dirt of the grave in our backyard—
now
crisp
in
frost
the
dirt clods
turn
up in ant-like hills
the
air is sweet offering,
unseasoned
firewood, fresh chopped cords,
some
stacked, some piled, waiting—
for
lifting by strong arms
—like
i am, scattered
near
this cross,
lining
up my betrayals
before
you—
where
I remember
how
far,
how
far
you’ve
carried me
© 2017 Jennifer
Wagner