Postmortem

Published December 21, 2013 by rlmcdermott

all hair
and teeth
and bone

she is the
rhythm in
this poem

her days
are numbered

she stops
to slow
them down

the old cowpath
the barrels
the apple tree
the gray porch

her father
coming home
carrying
his bones

the men on
the loading dock
calling her name

this is what she remembers

a young girl’s life

danger everywherePostmortem

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