Why Bugsy Siegel was
a Friend of Mine
by James Lee Burke

Burial
by Cleopatra Mathis

Pushing and Pulling
by Jay Rogoff

Burial
    Cleopatra Mathis

Later he died, and it was then I think
I began to give sense to every motion
I had not heeded. Already I could no longer
kill an ant, a wasp, without some smallness
setting in: the burden of my own hunger
apparent in every living thing. But that was after

Chester buried the dog, after he walked us down
into the swampy woods. Sunday morning, already October,
the grasses shot through with yellow, the locust
bearing its alligator bark. So early
we were in our nightgowns, my sister and I,
my brother trailing. The durable creatures of the air

zoomed and crossed, my heart lit with grief
for the dog, my own dear fierce animal
mysteriously dead, firing the rage that would lead me,
while Chester shouldered the dog on one side, the shovel
like a rifle on the other, come once again
as a favor to my mother, who had no man for this weight.

And the new sun faced us, flat across the flat land,
making its way across his quiet face
as he dug the hole. My sister sobbed, my brother watched,
and I was so busy in my head, even now
I can see only the lovely patterned fur
arranged in the hollow of red dirt. Not Chester,

who was one more thing in the landscape, his presence
something I took in like air. Not his glistening
onyx self, his color smooth as mineral, or the comfort
of the low voice giving a few words in praise of dog,
although I heard him take one deep breath,
the amen, when he finally rested.