Life in Necropolis: Four Letters

Candy Shue

Dear Farmer,


Are your fields haunted?

Did one clay distinguish

itself from another?

This clay fertile, that clay

ghost?  So many souls

adding their mercury

blood to your soil.

Were you angry when

the shovel’s tip stuck

fast in the ground?


A rock deep in the dirt

and hard.  Did you

watch the sunlight’s

fast fading?  Your skin

knowing before your

eyes—Earth, but a harder

alchemy—an army laying

claim to your home.

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