Archaeology
Kayla Cash Thin and getting thinner, my father roots in the garden next to corn stalks ready for wither and till. His blood runs cold and clotted between the tomatoes and cukes – inebriated, bones fragile with Maker’s Mark – he’s forever picking unripe things, left with not enough, the deck steps now overflowing. He hooks his fingers on pole beans, goddammit it’s time, asks me to find him a pack and lighter, gets to work. With cigarette drooping and eyes bloodshot, a rash creeps up his forearms – over him, onto me. He says he wants to be buried here, not scattered – I’ll pour some pilsners for his sustenance, warm his bones for winter. One day I’ll find his teeth on the cob, and shuck tirelessly for the rest – this is my skeleton to unearth. |
|

About the Author: Kayla Cash is currently an MFA poetry candidate at the University of New Hampshire, where she hosts the monthly reading series, Read Free or Die, and reads for the online literary journal, Barnstorm. Kayla's work can be found in BOAAT, Hollow, and By&By.