Bury Me Beneath the Willow

When on summer eves I walk the country
greens, I find no poetry in the even fields,

only sad still songs, frogs, gravel. Whenever
I see horses I point it out, saying Look. Horses,

and those around me say, We know. We live
here. We sit in a circle and watch the old

bottlerockets fly to the trees and hang there like
brief torches, hoping the flames will jump to the

house and give us something to do. Back in my
city there are hats in the crowd and large bags

over every shoulder. This leaves the hands free
to wander amongst other hands, other shoulder

bags. When I see a gold painted lady and point it out,
saying Look. A gold painted lady, those around me

say Yes. But they do not even look, they take my
word. They check their reflection in taxi windows.

I remember when you told us you drowned in the lake
behind the house and we all said it was the best story

we'd ever heard and I didn't say I wish it had happened
to me. We followed you down to the water and I could

imagine my own body floating under the willow boughs
like a small white balloon, what if someone was asleep

in the hammock I said. And they looked at me instead
of you as if they all had imagined their own bodies, too.












Leigh Stein is a graduate of the 8th grade. She lives in Chicago, teaches improv to adolescents, and makes mad good challah. Her poems have appeared, or will appear, in 42opus, Barrow Street, Diagram, Gangway, and 2River.






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