In Hiding
This town is river-hungry, filled
with dried-up moss and torn
blue jeans. It’s hard to find 

any prettiness here, any shade,
much less a place to sit 
and think. The best I’ve 

done is Grandfather’s field.
Nothing will grow but 
there are cow bones still to bury. 

Their flesh dried in the months
after almond farmers 
planted their well. One-thousand-

feet-deep, it sucked us dry. Spiders 
laid eggs in our faucets and 
instead of water, small

brown bodies washed over 
our hands. Outside is
no better. Where flowers

once were are ribs and hips.
Clouds of flies swarm
over them like smoke on a 

humid day and I remember
how beautiful their necks were,
bending to eat grass. Bones

poked up when the spine arced
forward and it was 
a sword rising from a lake,

sharp and still sheathed. 
Copyright © 2004–2017 Memorious