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Watching a Found Memory From the City of I
by Ephraim Scott Sommers
As a boy, behind the house,
I crawled among an army
Of caterpillars inching along an open field at dawn.
Like a hundred index fingers,
They curled and extended, curled
And extended, and pointed me
Eventually to my brother's body
Sinking into the scrub brush.
The addict's waxed paper, the head's
Orange beanie, the artist's hollowed ballpoint—
Jonah's things—drowsed about
The wet meadow, strung out on needles
Of grass. Blades brushed away the dew
Lulling on his soft tissue. A thousand funeral lilacs
And oleanders listened, each with an ear peeled
As my mother's howl flooded the highest
Corners of our marble church, but flowers
And bodies cannot fill the cathedral
Like a voice, like recollection. The summer butterflies beat
At our screen doors even now. Let us let them in.
And keep them. And name them. Every one.
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