Seam

[Many corpses are stacked, . . .]

58 Many corpses are stacked, Mother once told me, because there’s no space. The plot of land I bend my head over is impossibly green: vines and plants grown over the thatched bamboo of the other graves. Someone has planted a glossy-leafed sapling over Grandmother’s grave: it gives against the strain of wind that carries with it a fresh rain that falls upon my clasped hands. I imagine the bodies stacked like the books, scarves, and notebooks filling the suitcase I’ll wheel into the crowded airport. I imagine them pressed like flowers in a book, thinning over time under the weight of new bodies. ...