C A R Y L U N A

 
…and just before the slope
down to where the sons of the man
who built our house
built our very own
playground, there
the cesspool would overflow
every spring–
a smaller pond of shit,
and how the yard would reek;

you say it came to you
at the threshold of the creek,
the clear prescience
of your death inside you–

and here I am
remembering our overflowing
shit like a pond
beside the pond where
the solitary great blue heron
would come to eat.