Lee Peterson

Issue #
April 26, 2020

Matins: Volta

Each morning we walk uphill
to where the graveyard fence
draws its terrestrial line.

The stone markers slope down valley.
The mountains beyond rise green
or white or gold to meet whatever
cloud or star or sun hovers there.

Sundays the streets fill with cars
—Catholics at mass. So many
well behaved children. So much sin.

For my part I have a love that’s
drenched my flesh and days. That moved
through me to make her—child at my side
now on one foot, now another.

Now one foot, we round the block—
now another, a full square. Gray mass of clouds,
wind on our faces and hands. Yellow leaf, you
pick up to show me. Yes, I see it so clearly.

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