by Dom Fonce
One, two, three…One, two, three—each grave is a sanctuary underneath this life-giving tree. We come here with fur in our nails and dirt-scuffed knees—these mounds are Elysian, enshrined in birthroot, entangled in Morning Glory: We count to thirty-five, thirty-eight, then forty. Are we selfish to collect you like odd stones? Your bodies still, stuck, quieted alone and pulpy underneath some man’s boot. Is gathering not the least that could be done? When we step here, we do so shoeless, each toe twined in grass—you—raking up from a shadow we will never feel. When we die, we will be scattered and our temples will reach every lampless corner. We sing in flutters from your hollow throat, those forest-deep hums, caws, and croaks that throng in damp country air—We see carcass and make essence in our back soil. In circles, we surround you and dance to the dead—Down! Down with the distant traffic! Down to devastation! Down to the damn boot! Down to death—though you are gone, we still feel you breathing.
Dom Fonce is the former founding Editor-in-Chief of Volney Road Review. He is the author of the two poetry chapbooks Here, We Bury the Hearts (Finishing Line Press, 2019) and Dancing in the Cobwebs (Finishing Line Press, 2022). He is an MFA candidate at the NEOMFA (Northeast Ohio Master of Fine Arts). His poetry has been published in Gordon Square Review, Rappahannock Review, Delmarva Review, Jenny Magazine, Sweet Tree Review, and elsewhere. He lives and writes in Youngstown, Ohio.