[wpaudio url=”/audio/march12/Macri.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
 
Around a corner, names
from the Civil War
mark the rock faces,
dates, initials from before.

Our grandparents in ties
and pendants, Sunday finest,
added their names where they
found space on the same

rocks as us, uplifted
from bright sea. Spring
after spring, tulips mark
the ground like this,

yellow struck with orange,
sparks of fallen stars.
I could fill my hands
(pick them up, baby girl,

until your hands can hold
no more). We walk
around and in the core
of stone, a sport

to squeeze, to climb
on sandstone perfectly
cleaved. Inside the city,
children hiking

scream. We are three
miles south of where
the glaciers stopped, soft
stone, lichen, tulip

trees, everything
above me.