by DORIS LYNCH
The dead listen more
than the living. Camouflaged
in dry cornstalks, they stand
attentive as corpse-soldiers.
At the hem of night
the disappeared respond
to willows’ sway as fog’s scent rises
from the belly of Black Bottom Creek.
The lost tune out the bellows
of frogs and the shrieks of night birds.
From these rich shoals of sound, they pick
out the occasional sighs of lovers,
the laughter of brothers, and sisters.
By this border of sea, the unborn
crouch beneath boulders and conches.
They wait, they hesitate, they bide this time
before time. How soothing it is to be called
and uncalled by the waves.
DORIS LYNCH'S work has appeared in Bitter Oleander, Commonweal, and Tattoo Highway. Last November, Finishing Line Press published her chapbook Praising Invisible Birds. The Indiana Arts Commission has awarded her three individual artist’s grants: two for poetry and one for fiction. She work as a reference librarian.