I was born in my brother’s grave,
emerged in his remains.
He is still with me.
When I speak of him, I speak of me.
A stone bearing his name and our birthday
marks his resting place.
Horses roam the hills beyond.
I stand at the back of the cemetery,
and that tiny plot becomes all I see.
—from Rattle #18, Winter 2002
Tribute to Teachers
Heather Lore: “I write for hours on end every day. The layers of words have given me a thick veneer, but few poems.”