We were told not to name
our children after the ones
who died violently

or young; or if we did,
to tuck those names
in the smallest follicle,

then quietly sew up
the seed. Walking around
among others, then,

we’re forced to remember
how bodies tilt without

how the fruit we counted
grew soft in the orchard;
how lanterns held the last

of their copper light,
drifting into the sky’s
outer margins.


In response to Via Negativa: Dissident.

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