IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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MISHA AND THE GRAVE

Aaron Ballance

Dug out the deep hole with rock bars and shovels along the shade tree path while the herd was in lower fields, and left the rifle in the truck because people believed horses know intentions, and the ancient Paso Fino, too sick for the molasses we dripped on grain and in water, came and stood over the grave when it was still morning, waited there past lunch, like a blinking statue, never swatting a fly, never pawing the fill dirt mounded above the hole we had left open to sun in case that warmth touched him when he fell.

 
 
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