White peonies border the stones of the old foundation.
At the edge of the meadow peacocks fan light
into small rainbows of flame.
You listen for the soft step of a bear,
the black paws’ chuff on the leaf litter.
An old road closes its arms around the forgotten,
fallow fields.
Your brother will return from there in the chiffon silence
of the afterlife, wrap you in a reassurance
unavailable from any altar.
And here, where the sun slips into the tangle of forest,
a barred owl is singing for his supper as he always does
with a question much like your own.
Who’ll cook for you, who’ll cook for you, who’ll cook for you?
From dispatch from the mountain state (West Virginia University Press, 2025). Copyright © 2025 by Marc Harshman. Published by permission of the publisher.