Day 8: BrokenThe hills are scattered with rotgut. Houses
or barns left for winds picking – paint sun-bleached
and peeling. Windows shot or shattered, broke
like history. A garden gone feral
in the front yard; generations upon
generations of kale and fennel knuckling
out of the weed infested ground.
My friend says when she dies she’ll come back as
a ghost and haunt us all. I don’t doubt it.
Funny how a life is looking back, how
it grows long as an afternoon shadow
how it doesn’t blink out but lingers on—
like a bleached house on a hill half covered
in blackberry bushes where memory
however broken or faded grows on.