Briar, Birch, and Brine


Push your body through the briar, the birch, and the brine,
Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
Your sheets lay untouched and torn with time,

1935 and years still pass like a train car,
Rattling across the tracks with ancient wheels,
Moaning like the girl who sleeps under the tar.

“Lord, God, friend,” she prays her prayer into the sky like a pyre,
A funeral rite, a vase full of daisies strewn across the floor,
Her hands never warmed against the fire.

Barbed wire, bedside manor, bending toward collapse,
Silent stares into her starry eyes,
1975 and red laces would replace dark leather bootstraps.

Her brother slept for seventy two years out of his eighty,
Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
These April months, 1935, make me feel like you hate me.

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