Photograph by Rudri Bhatt Patel


by Carrie Awbrey

Pages turn like waves
at a river’s edge.
In the garden I rake
my fingers through the story
I was wrong not knowing,
scooping up handfuls of stolen
and vow by purple mountain majesties
to know down deep the atrocities,
to gather more truth
like a panner gathering gold,
to keep lamenting
my pride and mythology.
Kneeling in the soil, I look up
into spacious skies and say
to shining faces hidden in clouds
backlit by the sun
I’m sorry,
while amber waves of
grief break over me.