Poem 21

The man, body and stranger arrive to a mesa. They don’t up.

The stranger says this place is just his people’s burial ground. But sacred all the same.

We take our hands to dig. A spot for this body to rest at last. It is a slow duty.

The sand shifts and slides, tumbling back to the hole

We are done at last

The body will live forever in a hole 6’×1’×4′.

Til the flesh rots and the bones eventually rise. Bleached by deaert sun.

The next tim3 someone finds this body she may be 1 whitened skull.


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