The Ones We Burned

by Harrison Blake

We stopped burying them

when we moved—

when it came time,

my father handled cleanup­:

wherever the soil was softest

& the ones we burned,

with collars

like coffin bells.

The wooden boxes

they came back in, heavy

with dead trust.

You see, even I have fallen.

On all fours,

I too thought the hand

around my throat was God.