Even I will be buried in my ancestors’ plot. Cushion of loam, wearing hair like peat moss, tree root. My death mask, rosewater and pressed viburnum. Not buckled into a box, but still unplugged from the earth. No one holds my arms like children scared of thunder. Under the torn bedspread, I confess all our stories to the ghosts. Their faces echo on the walls, tangible like the splay-shadow of bird’s wings on a clean window.
Amanda Stovicek is a poet from Northeast Ohio made of star stuff. Her work has appeared in 45th Parallel, Ghost City Review, POTLUCK Magazine, and elsewhere. You can find her at amstovicek.com or on Twitter @amae099.