Fall 2012 • Vol. XXXIV No. 4 Poetry |

Out of the World There Passed a Soul

The day of my mother's funeral I spent clearing out her overgrown flower beds, down on my knees in the leaf rot, nut shells, tiny grains of sandlot sand spilling from the runoff gullies. The hot work was to see not feel what had to be done, not to go on asking, not to wonder anymore. Full from scraps I'd found at the back of the refrigerator, her mongrel dog lay curled on a stone and watched me work. It was Sunday. The telephone rang, then stopped, then rang again. By the end of the day, I'd done what I could. I swept the walk, put away the tools, switched on the indoor safety lamps, and then (it hardly matters what I think I felt) I closed the gate on a house where no one lived anymore.

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Ilium

By Sherod Santos

The day of my mother's funeral I spent clearing out her overgrown flower beds, down on my knees in the leaf rot, nut shells, tiny grains of sandlot sand spilling […]

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