Under the pile,
as the stacked bodies
came to be called,
under the deadweight
of her mother
into the earth
with the urgent desire
of a farmer
who knows that the village
crop will not thrive
under cloudless skies
but plants his seeds
The Blue Black Wet of Wood
Today’s rain is blue, a blue of skeletons and the underside of ashes.
Footsteps pool in azure and the sea seeps through
in waves that remember the determined descent
of drowning slaves. The slog of night mosses my fingers
as if to apprehend the ribs of trees and, somewhere,
a song repeats in threes, calling little girls back home
from wherever obsidian away they may have roamed.
But the distance outlines an edge where a house may have stood,
and, oh, but the night and the blue black wet of wood.