graveyard dirt

i go out with a trowel to reconile 
all of my fruit. the peaches that melted 
into handbags & then turned into swallows.
we used to walk here together & hold hands
amoung the hills & headstones. i picture
apricot trees growing on the necks of masoleums.
it is said just a handful can become a voice.
my grandmother who clapped her hands to stay warm.
the dogs who ran until they came apart as autumn leaves.
i used to want to raise the dead. now, i reach
into the jar to feel just a bit of underworld. in the soil 
i see a jaw bone. an eye lash. swelling afternoon.

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