Month: 2022 مئی

The wind ain’t never been nothing but breath. Every hurricane season—rhapsody—Black bodies emerge from water and wake  in the trees. Somewhere, stone cracks, and we hear: Stacy, a surname left like a charred femur after a ritual. In search of the Wards among a field of graves, I see the shadows of bones and bodies. I watch as the caretaker hacks at the plants trying to steal a grave, pull it below the high water table—they wanted the bones. Here, the dead swim among the living. They gather in the water welling beneath…

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  I. The Burial of the Dead   April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we…

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so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens

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