9 September 2015


Ours is a land of open graves
where knolls of soil from one
are used to fill another in a case
of domino deaths on the roof
of the world. Death, bold death,
has found sanctity among us.
We are the ones who dig out
tombs whose soil covers
our graves. There’s a kind
of comfort there, in how sweat
from your own brow cleanses
the blanket of your eternal life.
(There’s no relief in knowing
we have turned into a nation
of grave-diggers, eaters of for-
borne tears). Comfort is chiefly
in knowing where life is from,
and then putting it back there.

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