Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2015  v14n1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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As a child I ate and mourned.

Now I will not eat. I will not mourn.

Bowls of glistening peaches.

Bowls of them, I tell you.
Golden, with a menstrual stain where the pit was pulled away.

On one of my daily strolls into the next-door cemetery
I met a hog snake, which even then was put on earth
to represent the antithesis of the working stiff.

The funeral director set a house trailer
on the cemetery edge to serve as a chapel
for grievers. It was cold in there,
the paneling warped.

A cheap box of tissues on the card table.
I slid one out and balled it up, stuck it in my mouth.

The gravedigger, his shovel carried over his shoulder like a musket.

I was pure of soul. I was.
Chosen to play the angel in every drama about God.
I had things in the right order:
i.e. the body is but a playhouse for the soul, all that.  end  

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