Empire

Many Years After

7 Many Years After German Shepherds, their muzzles wedged between fence posts, growling, water pools in the empty sound of spruce trees, funneling the light. Hours ago, a family: two towheaded boys scrambled ahead. “You’re not far now,” the father said, his leg gashed above the knee, his wife wheezing. Dead leaves sound like panting beneath my feet. Without entering a door, I arrive inside, the right nave completely gone, bleached planks disappearing into dirt. My body casts its shadow beneath a painting of shadows barely visible on a wall scoured by a blast. Did it begin one night as a whistle only dogs hear? A branch scrapes floorboards in a wet staccato, graffiti reading: COME CLOSER! I want to scrawl: In Memory of Flight 8 until, standing on a bench, I see bits of pigment holding together the convert’s eyes, the curves of four dogs crouching. It is almost dark now. The mouth of Saint Jude is a blue scar. ...