The Ribbed Gate
Rain,
a cloudy grey, slips
Into a drum that was a bucket
glossy ring of water
inside its throat.
beneath the rim a stain shows red
where the spill didn’t quite remove
the last traces
from where the bodies hung.
skin sacks prickled with sticky fur
from the last flush
to clean the bowl, going out to the brook
in the late summer afternoon
knowing the smell to have gone
and the memory washed cleaner
like a gutted chicken, slightly afraid
of death’s repercussions
and a gate squealing on its hinges
I had meant to secure.
Page(s) 78
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