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Poem: “At the hill tomb”

 

 

At the hill tomb

 

At the hill

tomb, she

finds nothing.

She tells the

guys, and they

run to find

folded blooded

linen. She sits

on the grass

of the garden,

and the gnarled

gardener is

there, his sweat

rich with grit-

clumped dirt, his

hair thisway

andthat. She

sees him take

the innocent

seed and thumb

it into the

maternal loam,

and the bread

is broken.

 

Patrick T. Reardon

7.8.18

 

 

This poem originally appeared in Time of Singing, Spring, 2018.

 

 

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