Donna James lives and writes in Seattle, Washington.

Ruminants
By Donna James

I walk a path to tight fit graves
of strangers in the far plot
where Cascadians like us
come to bury our dead,
no chemicals, no caskets,

and it matters,
that he lies with strangers.
Not that I believe he’s here—
only bones left to intertwine
as time shifts ground.

I watched once as he knelt to weep
at his father’s mound among his tribe
in the Jewish graveyard across the country.
Here, bones lie in green burial brotherhood.
I’ll count them all as distant kin.

At the back meadow, where blackberries tangled,
is a new fence and a sign:
These ruminants tame noxious weeds.
When they finish their job, native shrubs
will replace invaders.

Beyond the fence, goats nibble.
His favorite childhood pet, a goat.
For a moment, I believe him
here, herding.