The latest in the collaboration between Center for Poetry Director Anita Skeen and RCAH Professor Guillermo Delgado!
Even in death my family is divided,
the Skeens planted at Goshen Church,
the Prudens already risen to the mountaintop
at Spring Hill Cemetery. Only the smell
of fresh cut grass unites the two, the wind
in my hair as I carry marigolds to stones.
Looking away from my Grandmother Skeen,
I take in the land I might have owned
had I been a boy, had there been
no flu epidemic in 1918. I am lucky
to have my father, born after the passing
of his father. Nor did he get the farm,
sold so their mother could move
five kids to the city and find work.
From my Grandmother Pruden’s stone,
I look down on that city, the interchanges
of three highways looping together,
easy conversation of hickory and oak
drowned out by arguments of cars.
There used to be just the Kanawha
going wherever rivers go, and…
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