Bones Come Home

bare feet pushing through grasses, gases, mud

sounds across silent prairie

a shotshell hull half pressed in the dark

its brass light dimming

forgotten crossroads with rusted carcasses

and weeds and yarns

taller than yesterday

kids yelling the yell

compete with the screen door slamming hard

scented pig bacon swelling the already

swollen damp

clunk of an attic fan

and

a new wooden spoon hits

the blackened iron pan

starlings swirling in pink graying skies

while confederate specters lurch and moan

God it’s hot

 and

bones come home

Bryan Lafaye, Louisiana

December 2006