The flies I killed

with my swatter this summer

haunt me.

Nights I can’t sleep,

I rescue moths.

They flop around my lantern.

Gathering them in a tablecloth,

I watch them flutter toward the moon.

The ones I can’t save,

litter the porch like leaves.

This morning I cross

the Fort Jones cemetery

leading to my family plot.

I place poppy seeds on the stones,

the shadow of a hawk

rumples over the grass.

Clouds are being pulled

apart by the wind,

there is something about

their torn white mouths,

like the dead

who will take my hands some day,

when I will rise,

like a wave out of the hot field.