Their bones keen a brittle dirge
for departed faith in possibility,
legitimacy, carried to rest
on backs bent over.
Crowds gnashing teeth, soft
and sticking with rot,
push in on these women
shuffling down the way.
Men reach out to rend flesh
and draw that blood
which horrifies them so.
They reel back but,
seeing the way now clear,
lash out again, desperate
not to be left behind;
they cannot uphold themselves.
The pall bearers scuff
their sandaled feet along
worn paths, bearing their charge
to familiar burial ground.
Amy Kotthaus is a writer, translator, and photographer. She writes free verse and works with black and white photography. She currently lives in Maine with her husband and children.
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