by Andy Bowen
In a thousand years they’ll dig us up in Oklahoma.
They’ll sort through our bones
At the bottom of that canyon
With furrowed brows and half cocked chins,
The incarnation of confusion.
They’ll use their shovels and their brooms to undress us,
Finding femur by femur,
Humor by humor,
Jaw by jaw.
The young one will sit up on her knees,
Stare at our tangled rib cages and ask,
“How did they die?”
The old one, standing behind her,
Noticing the geometry of the sockets of our eyes,
Will remove his hat,
Straiten his collar and say,
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