Farryl Last

EARTHQUAKE 62 A.D.
 

The first time we were happy.

Children, really; winter birds
took refuge in the ilex.

There were signs: my mother’s garden
grew well.

Memory of a waterlogged moon, of
body stringent in metallic dark.

Don’t pretend there weren’t.
Berries soft-skinned on the dirt;
there were signs:

Memory of rebuilding.
Labor of rebuilding.
The body’s loneliness.

To think, the earth is sleeping.
The violets wild in their fields.


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