viii–xi. Archaeology

viii

Some artifacts from the days when

We would camp in our backyard and

Wake up with our bodies swollen:

Mosquito bites in the thousands;

Egg crate foam; wood my brother cleaved

Every summer; smoldering ash;

The ochre foxes we believed

Haunted us after our dog thrashed

ix

Them like a boiling wave against

Inert cliffs; my brother’s finger,

Which lopped off when an axe dispensed

Him of the burden; the figure

Of a lone Canadian goose

Framed by the entrance to our barn,

Where she sought to escape the sluice

Of winter’s raw scorn, a stillborn

x

Mass of flesh, feathers, and bloodless

Webbed toes; our mom’s nebulizer;

The verdant rocks, veiled by mosses;

A muddy duck pond where lied a

Cast-iron tub; a cough caught in

Our mother’s throat, the muddled dirge

Of a lifetime smoking, cautioning

Us; our roaming cats; black birch

xi

Canopies overhead; wooly

Caterpillars parachuting

From the sky; my mother’s belly-

Button piercing, substituting

For much better sense; the newest

Books from the library, which I

Would collapse into, like truant

Fancies; and, without fail, horseflies.