do you want to come out?

Greek Easter
Bury me, your son
demans. Warm sand
leaves black dust
on our palms. We heap
his goosepimpled legs,
damp swimsuit,
soft belly, crossed arms.
He laughs, wiggles
his toes out and we
bury them again. No,
he says, bury me
all the way. So we place
a towel over his face,
blanket it with grit.
We can see sand rustle
when he breathes.
Do you want to come out?
we ask. Nmph, he muffles.
Perissa (Thira), 2006

April is Poetry Month. We’re celebrating here with a poem a day, by giving out poems like candy when you visit us, and discounting all poetry books by 10%. Because reading poetry is a fairly acceptable form of social deviance. And we’re all about that.

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Filed under Poetry Month 2012

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