Dear Elizabeth, every night the children
run through the streets with their arms wrapped in canvas. They are playing bury-the-knife. I tried calling to them once but they hear a lower register than I can manage. Sometimes when they release the ghost it runs through what used to be your garden. When its flashlight was aimed at the proper angle, I saw the top halves of your pearls still lying in the soil, the rows and rows of flowers I planted so long ago.
Matthew Mahaney was born in one place, grew up in another, and has since lived in several more. He currently lives in Tuscaloosa, where he is an MFA candidate at the University of Alabama. Other poems appear or are forthcoming in Caketrain, Blue Mesa Review, and Sentence, among others.