The Grave
For Jan Dean
“the zucchinis are King Midas
withering in their own liquid gold”
Magdalena Ball, ‘False Promise on Petals’
a backyard is a
cemetery.
there are tiny
bones down there.
bones of birds
and mice and skinks.
each year they
subside further
into the sandy
soil.
if you were
buried there,
the way you
wanted to be,
all that would
be left of you
in one hundred
years
would be your
teeth and some nylon thread.
you will always
be
that sole
cigarette ember
on a summer
night
blending into the
wilds of the garden you planted
behind a sentinel
of spiders
Morgan Bell
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