Some lose children in lonelier ways: tetanus, hard falls, stubborn fevers that soak the bedclothes five nights running. Our two boys went out to skate, broke through the ice like battleships, came back to us in canvas bags: curled fossils held fast in ancient stone, four hands reaching. Then two sad beds wide enough for planting wheat or summer-squash but filled with boys, a barren crop. Our lives stripped clean as oxen bones.
From The Helen Burns Poetry Anthology: New Voices from the Academy of American Poets University & College Prizes, Volume 9. Copyright © 2010 by Gabrielle Calvocoressi. Used by permission. All rights reserved.