Prairie Stuffz

Before the Funeral, We Stop By

 

In daylight we discuss the night,

Point to the clouds and conjure

Covert networks of stars,

Specks connecting kingdoms where

Everything has died, where the air is

Ruled by silences we cannot see.

 

In October we trespass on

Prairies while the sun beats its yellow, wrinkled fist

Atop our heads.

I suspect everything out here is angry,

I suspect everything in our cameras only wants

To decay.

 

Bugs set themselves onto our shoulders and

We flinch.

Our footfalls ruin universes where

Everything only wants to expand.

 

On weekends we visit like children

Tracing the lines on our Grandmother’s face,

Calling to the golden years we must have missed.

 

I suspect at her funeral we will cry,

We will blush and twiddle our thumbs

Wondering what exactly she knew of us.