Feet crunching leaves on the cracked driveway, a small woman with slurring lips lays the death of her kid in a trash bag from the convenience store that she walks to barefoot Saturday afternoons after the word of God. Lovers with a dead goat in their hands watch her from across the bend and she gives them a glance. Tomorrow, she will bring fodder to the farmhouse crypt wearing bare hearts and a dinosaur cap from Universal as a child.
It once gave her God and pecks and a childhood,
but the wooing wind dusts her browning, white sneakers affront the tired farmhouse crypt with the other children, made with fingernails and a
splintered shovel. Crust crunches with every critter’s eye blink at each ring of the church bell down Horseshoe Bend Road.
Clucking, malady, chars her heavy ears and a wasted throat. If a god exists now, never where the goats would graze with their infirmity, conking like a wasp and bluebird disappearing at eventide.
Grit in the children’s eyes for their dead brother stood her up with blood on each leg.