Eulogy from the Killing Fields

1 Minute Read Time

Photo by Anthony Aird on Unsplash

I
This haven, mossed and quaint, is not heaven—
in the summer it sleets black doves,
I swear the plank it pours them.

A muted choir gurgles,
beneath the mud near the Black Ash Tree
where snakes with lies stuffed down
their endless throats hang, hooked
and ready.

The toes of the low marsh drain
and lilies pop up each flee season—
headstones for the bodies consumed.

II

As a haunt
I am skinless, thick-less
muddied, naked and mapped.

The dipper carved into
forearm bone.

Not humbled, I am soring.
Not missed, I am dead.




III

I hear White Mountains have left
their peaks and valleys have taken the high road.
Hot springs have drained themselves of heat
and water, being water, still claims to clean—to purify.

The marsh being the marsh holds bodies—its prey
under rocks and between the fingers of twigs.

Me being ghost offer myself.

My naked body baptizes water—
it can scrub sin from many things,
but not this. Not this.

Read more from Issue 17.2.

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