You, There

 

Wrap the bitter war

around your neck

like a proud bronze

reward. Hang it tall

to guide you. All

the dead forget

about snow and ink.

They forget geography.

They forget songbirds.

They forget their names.

Trolley me through

this rubble. Trundle

me across the blue

and yellow sky. Give me

more broth made of

nothing and bread

made of crumpled

ash. Cradle me

in a childhood

that is no more

and I will show you

my inner wings. This

is why we tell our

histories—the holes

where once a family

stood; the crush of

wind where once

a forest grew; a forced

embrace of now

that has lost the

tales of the dead

who have fallen

between the fingers of

our comfort and our time.