What Remains
Kyle Hunter
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Innocent, greedy squirrels taking nuts 
they have no room to hold. Such big breaths 
sucked, gulped, in 
anticipation 
of death. 
We were taught this fun, little game—  
to hold our breath as we passed 
the repose of bones and flesh, 
gone or going. 
Dead bodies captured, 
named in cold stone 
whizzing past as we dug 
deep and bugged out our eyes. 

We were taught, to respect
the memory of the dead by keeping 
off the grass 
that covered their agape, festering stares upward. 
Painting ourselves back 
into corners, of grief and remembering 
to forget, trading an unhesitant life 
for respect. A life worth celebrating is a life 
to stand on. 

Hills of bones, 
mountains made of what’s left
by the greatest women and men. 
Skulls and ribs, precious 
for what they held, under foot 
making paths, upward 
to heaven, to the heavens, 
or just up.

 
 

About the Author:  Kyle Hunter is an attorney with a BFA in painting from Indiana University. He lives in Indianapolis with his wife and four young children. His work has been published in Branches Magazine, Silver Birch Press, and So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library.​

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