Entirely whole to me, others it’s all just spilled
Powders mixed up, red troubles and abyss.
I feel the gravitational tug of each least thing,
An ant, a speck of breadcrumb, and I sense
How the trees move aside a fraction of a fraction
Of an inch, how they want to make me over,
Rearrange my atoms, scramble the flocks of me
Into seed or wind or leaf. Soon enough.
Walk to the Farmer’s Market
through the neighborhoods through the old city cemetery, where the pioneers nest where the jailbirds working off time dig, water, rake, swing their weed-eaters back and forth over, across, around the mounds.
Silk roses, white, in the arms of a cherub—they look spotless, brand new, though the grave is eighteen hundreds. There’s the smell of fresh mown grass, the scent we’ll remember when we mingle later in the fruit and vegetable stalls, under the freeway overpass that hangs above it all like a bridge to the afterlife.
Susan Kelly-DeWitt is the author of Gravitational Tug (Main Street Rag, 2020), The Fortunate Islands (Marick Press), and eight small press collections. Her work appears in many journals and anthologies, most recently The Autumn House Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry.