My mother weeps from her grave
over my mismatched furniture
and dustballs gathering in dark corners
while I meditate, toes pointed
towards the rumble of dead horses
over my rooftop.

Dust is relative, I say,
in a useless attempt to quiet her.

I speak aloud of the horses,
their manes tangled by the wind
and the blood of slain buffalo,
hearts pounding from that last hunt,
before our houses herded them
deep into the black ground
to dream their memories of freedom.

You're crazy, my mother tells me.
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About Pris Campbell


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Pris Campbell makes angels wings on her bedspread in her spare time between writing weird poems about dead people and old loves. She lives now in South Florida and is convinced it'll sink before the end of the next decade from the weight of too many condos and resorts. She has published eight collections of poetry...read more and her poetry has been seen lurking in such journals as Outlaw Poetry Review, Chiron Review, Boxcar Review, Red Fez, Rusty Truck, PoetsArtists and many others.
5 comments
Discussion
  28 months ago
kind of apocalyptic
  28 months ago
a wonderful poem - I can never meditate without being haunted by somebody
  28 months ago
Haha. Great internal conversation.
  28 months ago · in response to S.E. Ingraham

    Thanks for your comment. It means a lot to hear what draws readers to particular poems.
  28 months ago
I was drawn to this because of the title and I love horses; I stayed because it could've been about my own mother.

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