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she was buried the wrong
way round,
unable to stand
and look over the trees
they didn’t consider
the winter when
they laid her there,
how the northern sky
would never lighten,
how the beads strung tight
across her clavicle
would sleep dormant,
unaware of their cache
of summer colors.
her sister’s offering – who
shook and trembled at
the drum of dirt
on the coffin lid –
who was loathe to leave
her beloved in the dark
with no reminder
of sky or poppies
or the breeze skipping
sweet off the meadow after
rain.







Grave 8 - Female
By Anya Maltsberger
Illustrations by Chloe Dootson-Graube
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