Against the tree you tie me so
        that I can't see

        the graveyard. Because
we have no

rope or galvanized utility
        chain remaining from

        the wedding, you bind
my chest and thin

thoracic nerves to the rooted
        set of our wet

        yard with a badminton net
I purchased

during the recently inflated
        threat of government

        shutdown. The light left
leaning leased shadows

through the leaves casts
        my frame a static finger

        in the knuckle
of the earth. Tight

nylon on my only
        running organ grows to mark

        the time between
the neighbors' screams and

what you're doing
        with the shovel. When I try

        to, I can hear the sound
of your slight breasts dressed

river-blessed in sports
        bra, sod pulling dirt rock

        forming us a hole.

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