I unbraid, then re-braid my hair, long till my hips. Grown for eternity, to speak to eternity. The earth risen with questions and white spruce. Brown and red lichen invade a rotting log laying like femur, the head of it once in the earth’s socket. I take a picture of a shrub leaf full of eggs. Expectation. Why did they leave them here?, I ask the leaf dancing in a breeze. The trees probably with mothered names but I don’t know enough about classifications of the world. A blue sign instructs not to disturb any bones that may be exposed. Except I see jutting of bones everywhere: newspapers and internet with unseen wars, bombs bursting in air, the way my parents’ bodies, workingworkingworking, sink deeper into earth, this waiting dirt sitting on me even though I will be cremated to ash. I wonder why the history of everything will leave me here, too, someday.

…

Preeti Kaur Rajpal is a poet who grew up in California’s San Joaquin Valley. Her most recent poems can be found in Tupelo Quarterly, Spook Magazine, and Blueshift Journal. She can be found online at https://preetikaur.wordpress.com