On cloudy days I would search
For the woodpeckers among
The reeds in the backyard
And wash their limp bodies in the river.
My father told me they died of fright.
I dug a mausoleum into the
Peonies and lowered them into
The soil among the junebugs.
Spelt bread was dry on my tongue
And my elbows were wet with soap
But the sun was hot. I sat
Cross-legged on the rocks, threw
Crumbs into the ditch, and twisted the
Bullet hole around my index finger.
It takes a liar to know one.
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