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Prairie Fire - - CONYER CLAYTON -

My feet black­ened like cat­fish

on the flat tar roof. Sit­ting

over my own bedroom, dirty

toes dan­gling, eyes

on the road past the mail­box,

on the red breasted robins

hear­ing in­sects make their way

through the soil. Wait, wait—and plunge

into the earth. Same earth of my body.

Same earth of her body.

Same earth of her ashes poured

into lake­wa­ter. Same earth

on my feet. Her body

in a bird’s belly. Her body

dropped on a wind­shield. Her body

scrubbed off at a gas sta­tion. Her body

poured onto the side­walk with the soapy wa­ter.

Her body sink­ing

into the con­crete’s cracks. Her body

sink­ing. Her body sink­ing

her body join­ing her body ris­ing

into the air her body

dis­pers­ing her body dis­pers­ing

my mem­o­ries dis­pers­ing her body

my mind thin­ning out and join­ing

and dis­ap­pear­ing and find­ing her body again

in­side me sit­ting ten years old

on a flat tar roof waiting

to see her car pulling into the drive­way

to see her smile and get out and take me

home take me home take me home,

please mommy, take me home.

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