Micheline Maylor
Burial
Father and Mother here with me
Standing pigeon toed
In the pin grass.
Some oblique speechmaker
Calls you a fine man.
What would he know
About the rush of red
That hit your cheek when
I called you darling or worse?
Or your shovels full of grainy words
That came cascading down on me
On too few afternoons, that now
Seem distant and brown.
Page(s) 19
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