poem for the dead

haunting

I get to thinking on my bones

like star dust

not mine to have just to pass through

I get to thinking on your bones
like tree limbs

lying on the forest floor

or yours

buried in the dirt of mount hope

yours of ash
once arms full of firewood

get to thinking things like

homeland

mothers

lovers

dust

home in the water

migration

your fingers

the bed you died in

haunt me

all of you

its your time

to speak

like rustling leaves

to the ground

hustle and move me

remind me about the other side

of loss

about time arching over to knit

all the bones into blankets of light
I’m here to remember

yours.