Melanie Galizio

Things are grown here. You should know, you were planted back during the naming
times. And even though we went the Degrassi route, I still remember pacing the rows and
turning the stones over in my mouth.

Are you a Samuel? An Asher? With every step you settle, skull grinding into my softened
bones until the day I lie down atop a stranger’s grave and roar you earthside. I have no
shame; I tell everyone it’s a family name.

The stones are ancient. Sun-faded runes cast from a cup. It is divined that we will be alive
here. There is a witch story of this cemetery. She was hung and buried where she dropped
and a chestnut sprung to mark her. An iron fence seals her.

When you come you sleep when you should latch. I am energized with terror. I strap you
to my chest and we walk and walk. It is winter. I whisper my mantras, prayers by the
thousands. Toe the nuts with my boot, tick the spikes, soak my shirt.

“Please, may he bloom like a garden.” In March the ground warms, the bluets wink, the
chicory comes early with the sun. You unfold my clenched fist of a heart when you yawn
in the golden glow. Everything opens.