The Death of the Mockingbird

There was no obituary, 
scribbled on pages of birch bark.
No wails from the treetops,
or whispers in the grass. 

There was no funeral,
held amongst the wilted crops.
No procession of grievers,
trudging down aisles of corn.

There was no body to mourn – 
just a pile of feathers,
scattered by the autumn wind.

The sun rose as expected – 
the mourners wore shrouds of open beaks,
pecking away at seeds, uninterrupted.
 


Synchronized Swimming

Today I’m planting potatoes,
digging trenches and hauling soil
from the stubborn pile of compost
eroding in the middle of my driveway.

I thrust a shovel into the dense earth,
rest my sweaty cheek on the handle,
and gaze across the street 
at the graveyard on the hill.

There’s a new pile of dirt 
on the cemetery grounds.
Freshly churned red earth, 
towering above gravestones – 
a somber announcement of a new neighbor.

Somewhere, a woman must be crying – or not.
She might be hungry, 
but her body doesn’t remember how to eat.

In the next room, a man might be praying – or cursing.
Sometimes it’s hard 
to tell the difference.

While across town, 
a little boy sits at his desk 
in a bustling classroom.
He’s staring out the window,
watching the landscapers plant trees.

The teacher’s voice is getting louder
and she’s clapping her hands now,
but nothing is more important
than watching the piles of dirt rise and fall,

Like the bizarre dance of synchronized swimmers,
breaking the surface with their perfect makeup.
Strained smiles rising in unison,
pausing before the fall – 
the inevitable descent.

The boy wonders what it means 
when you plant something 
that’s not supposed to grow.

About the author:

M.K. Greer lives in Maryland with her family. Previous publications include Whale Road Review, Kissing Dynamite, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Rust + Moth. You can find her on Twitter: @MKGreerPoetry.

Feature image by Boston Public Library on Unsplash