Raising the Dead
Jon Ballard

It's Christmas Day but I count
Seven birds dead on the west 
And north sides of the house. 
Impacts are still discernible on the big
Windows, as if the smudges
Of children's mischievous palms-
Yet these are the blots of headlong death. 
Broom and dustpan, I raise the dead
Over the hedge into the lot next
Door, the weeds and grasses
Consuming the clump of grey-green
Feathers like an earthen furnace.

Return to Spring 2007 Table of Contents