Shallow graves in Ezekiel's field
bones lay dry rising only
in excavation. Ground hums,
vibrating beneath a silent shuffle
of stone-faced visitors.
I listen.
Bones sing.
Low moans cry
"Remember,
should the rest forget,"
voices laced with
a deep incomprehension,
whys in the wind
(loosening my fastened curls),
memories of a tree,
an ax, of severed families,
severed heads.
And my skeleton once silent
in the Singing Fields,
now to share their song.
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