Squaretable Seminars

Twenty Years Ago,
My Father Was Buried On a Board


On a hill in the country, a rolling cemetery sits
in place of a field. Summer grasses cradle one mound
where a lone star sinks down with each rain. There, six feet beneath,
green diamonds are pieced together in patterned fabric. The tiny dots and dashes,
evenly marked for scissors and needle, are gone; but a thread weaves in between, marking time and holding
the universe together. Eight sharp points star the white ground, where a man’s bones face west to watch the fading daylight wash over the corn.


© Hannah Walleser