You could have a big dipper   

Picnics at the Graveyard by Molly Kilduff Greer






The dead speak in numbers

that I can understand.


I run my fingers across dates

and do calculations in my head.

I scrape dirt out of letters

that don’t make sense.

Letters don’t add up,

letters only subtract

from the balance of understanding.


I collect the wilted flowers

and scatter their seeds

close to the stones,

out of the reach

of the hungry machines.


I spread my checkered blanket

and arrange my gifts

on the marble altar –

flowers from the roadside

and shells from the bay.


The type of treasures I still find,

clanging around the bottom of the dryer,

woven into lint filled filters,

tucked away safe in empty drawers.

Pretty little broken things,

that make no sense.



 

Molly Kilduff Greer (she/her) was born and raised in the suburbs of Washington, DC, where she currently resides with her husband and two children. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in 34 Orchard and Green Ink Poetry. You can find her on Twitter: @MKGreerPoetry.


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