Old southern tree moss
swayed gently, high above me.
The buff colored dirt
was pounded
around the worn stones.
There were names,
not unlike my own,
barely visible,
as the whole of the stones
seemed to fall away,
grain by gravelly grain.
My eyes traced the edge
of the stone,
hypnotized
by the hole in its edge.
Twins laid buried here
sharing a coffin.
Twins whose love for each other
robbed me of uncles
in that dark and
swampy river.
“My grandfather
made the double coffin.”
Pointing again,
she said “Your grandfather is here.”,
I knew the story.
That dark and swampy lake
had, again, robbed me,
swallowing up my grandfather
but there was no stone,
not even one with a hole in it.
Joy Stalvey Barefoot
June 4, 1990
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