Nov/Dec 2016 • Vol. XXXVIII No. 6 Poetry |

Genesis

How to go on after the boy with the gun and the children in their small, light-up shoes. After the man with the gun in the church, in the school, in the theater. Grief pushed us back to the garden, made us kneel down in the dirt. In the orchard on the edge of town, we gathered with others to plant plums and pears, apples, persimmons, a fig that gives green globes despite the Indiana winter, the clay soil, the voles. When we heard your heartbeat, amplified over speakers, I thought it might be the sound of thunderclouds collecting in the July dusk, the ones that undressed your father and me, when we lay together unashamed. You who floats, a seed-swirl inside of me, you who did not ask to be brought to this world: there are stories so old they are folded inside our cells, burning at the center of our being. Eve gave birth to boys: one would become the murder; another, the murdered; and a third, mostly forgotten

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