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In This Province, It Has Been So For Generations
Easter Sunday rises in snow,
just a touch that won't stick,
and no bells. For their part,
the maidens in the poppy fields
are not looking for the pleasures
boys can give.
If boys can give pleasures.
The pastor says,
"If you can't find God
in a cemetery in springtime,
you can't find him,"
says it over and over, so
I've taken to taking my dog
through the graveyard on our walks.
The ghosts watch me pick up after her.
I give them notes to take over,
but I don't think they do.
They always come back unwilling
to meet my eyes with their blank spaces,
saying, "Maybe tomorrow an answer."
Sometimes I think they're trying not to laugh.
I've given up. When the girls come in
from the fields, I ask them which direction
I should start walking.
One rolls her eyes. One is smelling
the red blooms in her palms.
One lays her finger on my lips
and lets it rest like a drop of rain-water
pulling down on a leaf.
Lets it rest a long quiet.
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