Leveler Poetry Journal
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I know you speak to your sons of me


gathered ghosts circling the only tree

left standing in a roped-off field. Though you could also be fog

on mountains now, this is when you might say Look up,

the birds hop from branch to branch. The squirrels now too,

so alive. Eventually,

the three of you will uproot this tree,

drag it into the lake, and swim until morning.

This is only gravity. Look how it tips, drops, settles

into the bones of everything: this mouth of mine,

the curl of lake departing, the reminders of lake left behind,

the silence I must assume is you listening closely.

Ben Clark