Some Graves

Some graves are filled
with old bones, hopes, baubles,
frozen dreams. Some graves
hum with a song the corpses sing
down under damp earth, waiting

for a trumpet to sound, a blood-
dipped robe. Some graves
sleep quiet filled with dust,
teeth grinding away
mistakes. Some graves
are empty. I don’t know

where the dead go—
to their respective, forever hungry
gods, or if they’ve given up
on the heavens and dug
deeper searching for a different
devious warmth. Some graves
are not graves at all, just
holes and cubbies for
loved ones we didn’t want to

let go. My grave
will be full
of clipped individual letters
thrown in randomly
like a confetti
of unintended words.

As I float away
I will wish for fire and
forgetting. Do not
keep me here. Do
not hold me in your
orbit. Cut loose

the tether of your love.
For me, surely, so I can leave
my cage of bones, but the cutting
is also for you. No
one should be chained
to an empty hole in the ground.

Evan James Sheldon’s work has appeared in CHEAP POP, Ghost City Review, Pithead Chapel, and Roanoke Review, among others. He is an assistant editor for F(r)iction and an Outreach Assistant for Brink Literacy Project.

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