Donna James’ most recent poem to appear here was “Buried Treasure” (November 2019).

Fabrication
By Donna James

In the dip between upper and
lower meadows at the old apple,
a mass of shrunken skulls,
harvest’s last spill, resolves to earth.

What do you see? I ask.
The sea of souls
I’m going to dissolve in,
he answers.

For weeks he’s noticed
Internet Nazi rally photos,
Chinese drill teams,
crowded theaters.
Face upon face, the departed,
where I see life.

Toward the back field,
we ford a creek.
It’s slippery,
and crooked, he warns.
He offers his hand.
I plant each step on a slatted platform
spanning the ditch.
I can handle it, I lie.

He wanders away.
I picture that sea
beyond that next clump of thicket.

He turns to see me weep,
pulls out his phone to catch my grief.
This is not performance art, I chide.
I don’t want a record of my pain.

I am deceived.
Between this happens
and this means,
I invent my part of the story.