Trent T Nutting

Slow etched in rot's black mottled font,
old tilting wooden markers silvered
two shades darker than the stone-front

graves of silent shoe-shod men from town
who splurged on permanence.
We saved the dead our highest ground.

The Sanford River's springtime flight
to madness with a spell of rain turned
lowland field to river bottom overnight.

Our corn and collards, our sweet potatoes
nursed on mineral silt, the lingering bight
of water's kiss. The brickmill closed ten years ago.

Eternity a thing that can't be owned,
we keep to planting and our springtime visits
to these graves with fresh-cut wisps of bone-

white foxglove. The river speaks
in brick-red accents but does not touch
our dead. In the pinewoods, we walk

home beneath the squeaky boards of ravens.
The crop is good. Our shadows braid
the way of creeks that join a bigger river.