No family. Anything but that
distributed wave of same
blood, different bodies.

No friends. Let them find some other
pretext for hauling out the secret ledger,
for declaring one of their own
eliminated by the math.

Only our lawyer,
tramping through a field
with a napkin map,
a spade, and two parcels,

stopping in the shadow of an oak
to dig, to unfold and upend,
to pack the dirt down hard
over our last bed.

From The Last Map (Unsolicited Press, 2017). Copyright © 2017 by Art Zilleruelo. Used with the permission of the author.