Cemetery

At eighty-one, she bends bottom to sky, a full
forward fold. The heavens fall around us, rain rolls

to the river. We adorn each grave—husband, son—
with a pine wreath, a red bow, and a dollar store flashlight

to glow on Christmas Eve. I watch, my mother prays,
and my grandmother fiddles with the old Easter flowers.

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Jennifer Newhouse earned her MFA at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Triquarterly, Lake Effect, The Chattahoochee Review, SAND, The Minnesota Review, Blue Lyra, and elsewhere. She teaches creative writing at Chowan University and lives in Suffolk, Virginia.

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