CONGESTIFIED ONSLAUGHT
The river has an oasis and I am coming
over the side - entering the new land
from some mesa or plain. There's a
dusty trail behind me, and this whole
wagon train. The preacher, he died
early on and there wasn't much to do.
He was the one with all the prayers,
and the only one who knew. We
buried him quietly, in a sandy hole,
each saying - best we could - what
we felt was on our minds about the
preacher, and his kind. The next to
go was Black Jared, our cook, the
mess guy, the one who tended fires.
That was a problem, for his kin and
for us; yet, being what they were, they
each knew what to do, and they did.
We still ate the same as ever before.
Maryanna died one late night giving
birth. She left us a boy, and the daddy
named him Seth. We wound her in a
cloth, and blessed with river water
her rags and her tomb. Though we
were hesitant to leave, we were gone
by noon. And then it was Howard
Tower. He who killed himself. We
simply did not know what to do
over that - we left him, on the
bloodied log where he had died,
and moved away. And here we
are, today, with no more
story to say.
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