At the hill tomb by Patrick T. Reardon
At the hill
tomb, she
finds nothing.
She tells the
guys, and they
run to find
folded blooded
linen. She sits
on the grass
of the garden,
and the gnarled
gardener is
there, his sweat
rich with grit-
clumped dirt, his
hair this way
and that. She
sees him take
the innocent
seed and thumb
it into the
maternal loam,
and the bread
is broken.
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