cornfield graveyard

i want to be weathered 
like crooked familial teeth. 
crops stretching their arms. 
roots weaving with bone. 
we park on the side of spilled road.
winding turn after winding turn.
a school house with empty-eye windows
& a limestone kiln's keyhole 
in the knee of the mountain.
we count the grave stones to twenty.
some lean on each other's shoulders.
others are the size of shoes.
weeds laugh between--dandelions 
& ragged prickled hands. soon autumn 
will take all the field has made.
soy beans & wheat & corn. 
this corn is feed corn, meant
for the cows who, a hill away,
lay down beneath an ancient tree.
like me & you, they discuss 
the fate of their milk & bones. 
if i had to be buried, i would prefer
to think of my stone old & smoothed as these. 
a single bowded planet. 
breeze makes waves across sweet stalks. 
we get back in the car. 
i drive & find walls everywhere.
the stacked stone walls 
of the small family graveyards that dot 
these pennsylvania hills
in my hometown. i tell you,
"let's make our own"
as if the dead could build
their own playgrounds as if 
as ghosts who might run our fingers
across headstones
to make them featureless.

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