White Blood: A Lyric of Virginia by Kiki Petrosino

Time Travel

The only way is through Old Master
along his row of chinaberries

behind the ruined smokehouse
in unmarked tracts, under field stones

with no carvings, no monuments,
with a few leaves shadowing the mulch

near scattered weeds, in sunken lines
while the sun walks in the day

at the end of the day
in an oval of brushed earth

just as the soft path finishes
under branches

where the dead are always saying
what they always say:

Write about me.

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