I stood over your rank bones today
The enameled name barely legible under
your lonely lichened stone~
Its mouth wide open with an
1855 death date so that I said it aloud
like a trap spring that could
raise you from the dead
Got down on my dandelion knees
pretending I could read your
foreign immigrant war claim and Indian fears~
your cholera lullabies and ****** years
the land took from you building your frontier
like a man immune to cold and wet
Pictured your plowing pains and hillbilly
beard generation swept up in the love you felt for
a woman wearing nothing but soap until I
showered you with my own tears
and wondered if you were prepared
when it was your turn to look up toward
the hole in the snuffbox sky

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015