Gravegarden
by Andrea Dunn
by Andrea Dunn
Dig
a hole, eight feet long,
two
and a half feet wide,
six
feet deep.
Lower
your love into the void.
Cover
him with a quilt
of
peat and moss and must.
Breathe
deep the loamy shroud,
Beg
pardon of the larvae, the tubers.
Pat
the dirt and clay into place
with
the hands that combed
through
his hair and grazed his cheeks.
Let
the silt sink beneath your fingernails.
Suture
the earth's new wound
with
marble or granite,
and
leave all he engraved on your heart
chiseled
on the rock.
Water
seasonally, as with the opening
and
closing of the sky.
Warrant
the sun to scorch,
and
permit the moon to mark time.
Fertilize
each moment:
gaze
on the before
and
dwell in the since.
Harvest
the offerings.
Sacred
Waters
by Andrea Dunn
by Andrea Dunn
The
sound of the raindrops slowly hitting my windshield
is
like singular grains of uncooked rice
landing
in a plastic measuring cup.
And
now as the rain’s pace quickens,
it
is popcorn, fully agitated,
plinking
and bouncing in the metal pan.
The
drops journey down my windshield
as
I wait in line at the elementary school.
I
leave the wipers off.
The
windshield now looks just like a glass shower door:
not
transparent, not opaque, not quite frosted.
The
rainfall moderates now,
like
the long leg of a race,
like
the tears of a grief stricken daughter whose sadness is not fresh and
violent.
From
Andrea Dunn: I am from Indianapolis by way of Southwest Texas,
Southern Indiana, and North Carolina. I studied creative writing at
Texas Tech University and now enjoy working at home raising my three
children. I have written for my eyes only for the past few decades,
but am ready to start sharing with the listening world.