Behind the house was a cemetery,
tucked away in a lump of pines—
five, six graves, unmarked,
no names, no dates, each
headstone no bigger than a book page
slanted into the hill. I sat with them
every afternoon I could steal from summer,
picking amber needles from their beds,
and closed my eyes to write their stories,
giving life to the dead, until a voice
beckoned—my mother’s call beating
its wings against the porch light, frenzied
cicadas drowning in the evening heat,
watching as I crunched homeward, 
their ghosts clinging to the trees.