place she lain
into the open middle blue
up through the
high top.
under the
bent neck.
upending bends
still below-
motherdie.
cow killing grove
of mini trees.
so many
butter-cups creep
across the place it
hadn’t grown.
3 thoughts on "place she lain"
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you sound native
born
to your current
hills:
forlorn
and lovely at once
I love the opening line so much and the way the poem shoots down the page like a wildflower stalk.
This. And the off-kilter language makes captures grief.