To the left of the pond…


…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.

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