But I lie because here is God’s silent wound,

my wet market of things that don’t stay dead.

Here I save squirrels so keen on drowning

in the creek I once killed a snake in. I feed halved

worms to the dirt thinking it would save me,

& it does. In daylight, my grandmother brings

pulse to the ground with her worm shovel,

digging gardens in our backyard cemetery,

ruining more & more. The graves are beginning

to look like homes. To survive, I behead

sunflowers that I have adored. I ignore the shattered

skull of a snake on the road while returning home.

I am always on my way home. All the while,

across America, there are boys kicked onto streets

for love, a dog giving birth to a litter of puppies,

towns mistaken for cities, these things stay dead.

It’s better that way. All over, children skip atop

nameless dogs & soldiers. There are enough spaces

to die in. There is everything & everywhere to die in.