The Lost Country

Spring 2013 • Vol. 2, No. 1

issn 2326-5310 (online)

Burial in Holy Week

By Sally Thomas

This work was published in the Spring 2013 issue of The Lost Country. You may purchase a copy of this issue from us or, if you prefer, from Amazon.

All our lives are just an eyelash, said my friend
Beside her baby’s grave. The troubled sky
Galloped above the narrow cold red wound
Laid open in violet-starred grass. A monastery
Graveyard: a strange, apt place for a girl to find
Herself in white, an involuntary bride
In a communion of celibates, facing God
Who had given and received in one dread day.
The little box was settled into earth,
Heavy coverlet turned up, the clotted clay
Spaded smooth. Then, having seen this birth
Complete, the new womb closed, the other children
Ran laughing among the modest, ordered headstones
In the wind, beneath the veiled and sinking sun—
Alive as fire, brief and hungry, with that abandon
Which is a kind of praise—throwing pinecones.