Behind us the old apple orchard mostly gone, turned into a park. The café windows are shutting themselves. The motorcyclists are in town to use the dirt track, they are like a stirring of bees. It is autumn so the souls of those who have passed have been invited back into homes. A meal is ready. Many have searched their whole lives for the tree of dawn but it is hidden too well in the ocean. I only meet my ancestors in divinity and in unfinished basements. My home is unholy brick. Children will sweep the floors and boil the dirt once the dead have left. I have never been one to count my years, to count my father’s. I suppose I am waiting for it. I do not see it. I have seen more stars explode. I align more closely with the folklore of social media. Instead of inviting the dead in, we receive reminders it is their birthday.
Currently, Robert Evory is the Coordinator of Academic Affairs at Klamath Community College. His poetry is featured in Georgia Review, Massachusetts Review, Permafrost, Natural Bridge, Nashville Review, Wisconsin Review, The Madison Review, Water~Stone Review, and elsewhere. https://thepoetsbillow.org/
