Stare down headstones, then we walk them,
me and Daddy in the graveyard.
Oak Hill actors, they talk ghostly
under blossomed white magnolia.
Baby corpses cradled under
branches swaying lazy, tangled.
Father, mother, sister, husband
lower my bruised apple rotting.
Worms they crawl and chew my eyeballs.
This October, orange falls down.
Heaven’s waiting for its daughter.
Tree arms blaze and fiery limbs wave,
wave bye to me. I’m still under
Southern roots and branches, breathing.
Cemetery trees by Lori Lasseter Hamilton | Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
