in the absence of noise

i count: rising tufts of dandelions, shaved grass 
clinging to a bottle of motor oil and bees thumping 
against the clean glass. like wind beating in waves, 
form follows function, and those aches press forward, 
call the thin-hipped ghosts we shaped in silence to stir 
more ashes in their cups. i could be wrong. again. 
maybe it’s less fear than pride. you try for a chest flat 
enough to drum and keep down three square meals
a day. without shame or tenderness, you release 
even marrow from bone, but not the slack ask i have
for the women of my line, a grandmother made to look 
alive in a coffin, or her daughter leaning to brush a 
crown of bangs back to normal. how can you be so sure 
there are reasons for placement? point to the rat snakes
rustling along the undergrowth, names of our dead recycled 
for their children. jasper weathers red in the creek where
i turn a throbbing catch like bruised fruit.

Read more from Issue 20.1.