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"Gravegarden" and "Sacred Waters," two poems by Andrea Dunn

by Andrea Dunn

Dig a hole, eight feet long,
two and a half feet wide,
six feet deep.
Lower your love into the void.

Cover him with a quilt
of peat and moss and must.
Breathe deep the loamy shroud,
Beg pardon of the larvae, the tubers.

Pat the dirt and clay into place
with the hands that combed
through his hair and grazed his cheeks.
Let the silt sink beneath your fingernails.

Suture the earth's new wound
with marble or granite,
and leave all he engraved on your heart
chiseled on the rock.

Water seasonally, as with the opening
and closing of the sky.
Warrant the sun to scorch,
and permit the moon to mark time.

Fertilize each moment:
gaze on the before
and dwell in the since.
Harvest the offerings.

Sacred Waters
by Andrea Dunn

The sound of the raindrops slowly hitting my windshield
is like singular grains of uncooked rice
landing in a plastic measuring cup.

And now as the rain’s pace quickens,
it is popcorn, fully agitated,
plinking and bouncing in the metal pan.

The drops journey down my windshield
as I wait in line at the elementary school.
I leave the wipers off.

The windshield now looks just like a glass shower door:
not transparent, not opaque, not quite frosted.

The rainfall moderates now,
like the long leg of a race,
like the tears of a grief stricken daughter whose sadness is not fresh and violent.

From Andrea Dunn: I am from Indianapolis by way of Southwest Texas, Southern Indiana, and North Carolina. I studied creative writing at Texas Tech University and now enjoy working at home raising my three children. I have written for my eyes only for the past few decades, but am ready to start sharing with the listening world.