At My Brother’s Wake

by Len Kuntz

The meadow that used to be here has been scorched.
The tree fort cinders and nails,
charred stumps.
There are reasons for things yet
even the sparrows seem lost,
the sky too barren.
“Over there,” I say,
“is where we’d fight bare-fisted,
no one ever winning.”
She says I must have loved him then.
The wind runs its fingers across the slope
as the ground gossips
about events that never happened.
We head back to the old house
where the others are telling
tall tales
so that everyone
looks good.