Refutation

We came to receive the dead
no hands but our hands
under their flesh—
no one wanted to say they were dead already, no one wanted to say, “I’m gonna die soon,” so the flesh pressed in like the indentation of spring soil, opening up for seed and forgetting to close up again, needed to close up to bring up the roots, but wouldn’t close up again around our fingers, just hung open and wet and stank a fierce cry out to the wagons like we were killing them again. Feet yellow and peeling with soft heels—don’t touch ‘em, just let ‘em drop, nowhere to go now but down.
            Funny they should be open for seed and we take ‘em all and bury ‘em down, acorn shells like we could forget ‘em over winter and have a new man spring up somewhere else. Takes root somewhere else, so we never know it’s the same man with the punctured, sunken-in chest holes. No telling the women when their fever got too hot that they would grow up again somewhere else. We just hoped they let their body be quiet so we’re not blamed for their silence, for their not calling out to us, “Help me”/”I can’t” and waiting without the long wait for their chest holes to come out.
            The wheels crack and turn, reluctant like a cat smacked when it comes to the door then called to come again. Wagon’s heavy cause there’s a dead weight. Those hearts filled up with sludge that oozes out of their lungs and noses even though they aren't breathing to push it out. Their hearts heavier than a boomin’ heart keepin’ the skin from breaking. They're breaking apart all over, and the wood is breaking cause of ‘em too. They’re seven to a wagon, even though our hands are already tired and our legs tired from pushing ‘em in. They're falling all over themselves like they never knew how to lay still and pray. We're scared of ‘em falling on us again, spread like yellow pollen all on everything, so we make the trip more times to keep them where they're at. All the cats already screamed outta the street for the smell. There is no food in this flesh, just like there is no man left standing ‘til he’s gone to seed and fallen all apart and ended up in our hands.
            Only a quarter mile to the graves. Pastor stopped worrying so much about the markers. We hope he’s praying all the time, cause there isn't anyone else who can kneel and then feel know they're gonna stand back up. It’s those women on their backs with their hands on their stomachs, praying, pray to us, and then spitting at us cause we aren't the angels they ask for. We’re nothing but shadows when the fever comes on that talk to them in madness, say, “Help me”/”I can’t.”
            Their children stay quiet and stop crying when the sun sets, and they still look up at the rooftops through the ceilings and see there the gathering of soot and smoke, and none of it stinks like the ground does with the water coming down from the sky and washing down that soot to make their feet more dirty with the waste. We’re one to say we know how they feel, with those feet in mud and shit so it clumps over their toes and makes their breaths shuffle down, breaths come heavy and heavier by the time they've gone quiet. It was still their mamas sitting and crying that would give out more calls—they’d like not to die—but they're sitting and crying in the dark with their hands on each child’s head.
            The children have no idea their papa’s already dead in our fingers, but they peel apart too and wither like they sat in the sun too long, their little eyes yellow and cast down like daffodils. But here now, they know now. They find out real easy cause the air isn't fresh, Pa is dead, and it isn't like us to sit down for a minute and say we're sorry about it cause we have more of the witherings to bring down and pile down and all our eyes are cast down too.
            The dirt is dry ‘til we touch it, then it flows over like rose petals flipped inside out after rain. We got some to just stay and shovel dirt and mud, six feet across and twelve feet wide, twenty pairs of feet cause there’s nobody left to mourn for their soul like there should be, they're just mourning their own lives and the lives of the people still awake. Shovelin’ like maybe if we plant ‘em all together there’s a rooster crow on the other side to lead them up all at once in the springtime, yellow-green sprouts outta their graves and back to their woman’s arms to forget us all over again. We came to receive the dead, we gotta anyway, and we gotta hope that maybe our seeds find darker soil and shoot up taller than the men we smell falling apart on the road. No hands but our hands, and those wagons still used like they’re not going to set ‘em burning as soon as the sun stops shedding their skin so they can light the fire. We're only rich in the pollen spilling over the edges, stand and hope fire strikes down mercy for the wood and the sick spilled outta their mouths.
            We gotta stop eventually and pull down our eyes to cover all we got left. Dark comes up over the murky yellows and those children smell themselves coming apart and they lean on the walls and cover their mouths, but their feet get splashed anyway—they’re dyed yellow anyway—and soon they're gonna sit on down and not get back up. Even though they're still leanin’ up like they have listening to do.
            Sleep comes like it could reconcile our blood with our bodies. There’s that yellow fog sneaking into dreams like you could reach out and bring it to your lips leaking through your fingers like liquor if you weren’t already running from it. Like you couldn’t run during the day or during the night cause there was always enough light to rise up that yellow fog. It's coming in your dreams through your hands when you touch your eyes and they get dim and orange like the flame’s goin’ out in a second. You’re outta your body and you seeing it fall apart like you're the ground in an earthquake you've heard of, Hell reaching outta your chest and bringing all of yourself back in. If any one of us stepped outta ourselves we’d go full bloom into the haze.