by Despy Boutris
Now, the backyard is a graveyard.
It’s scattered with dead bodies: a fish,
three cats, the ashes of a husky.
Since the burials, the fig tree has grown
taller, the gravestones littered beneath.
On nights like this—rain pouring, scent
of soil—you fix your eyes on the hills,
waiting for a mudslide, or some other
kind of disaster. By now you know
the world is all fires and floods. You know
it’s all loss, all broken-open pomegranate,
juice dripping red on white sheets.