Allison Cundiff

Burying Jory 

Jory was the never baby.

Cotton wrapped bundle of blood

in a willow coffin Jess cut so small

we won’t forget it ever. 

Funeral day I woke up

and the cut on my calf from the saw 

had turned into a hot red line.

I wrapped it in a sweating poultice

and followed Jess to the grave

where I stood stiff across 

from Oak Jefferson’s girl

with my calf wrapped and Jory 

lowered down into the cold. 

Oak’s girl shook her head,

said potato only takes if laughter’s in the salve,

the weight in her legs moving from right 

to left and right again. 

That night I dreamt I left out bowls 

of breastmilk for the coyotes. Their brown hides

inched toward it, the bluecream

shining in the moonlight,

spilling like ribbons out of me. 

I sat up sore, stared

at the twin stains on the mattress,

hearing the first spring birdsong 

through the windowpanes. 

Did you know that even some spiders nurse?

I can’t be the only one. 

In the middle of everything, 

how dare the violets bloom.