Laura Johnson

Strata

Mother hid the bones

of three thousand

lies [we started find-

ing remnants of

childhood] years

before. Memory

holes ate through her

good blue I-want-to-

be-buried-in-this dress.

We now know her

name was Helena and

she never had child-

ren. If bones tell stories

archaeologists are

Homerian poets [we

understand nothing] of

trench whispers about

a sister called Celeste

and a burned down

house. Dignity burrows

deep; truth attempts a

final stand covered in

dust. We buried her

in that red dress [

out of spite I supp-

ose.] Our small

shovels will take life-

times to pile the spoil

from around these

bones.