Three hundred years leaves little legible.
The dates of mothers dead at twenty-five
beside their daughters dead at nine. Winged skulls,
winged cherubs, winged portraits. Nothing but blurs
on marble or sandstone, which last hardly
longer than we. Granite fractures and slate
segments. Stones sink and slant. Neither risen
nor fallen know enough to name their new
condition something they will recognize
when next we call or next they need to know.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.