Janet’s husband stands bowlegged, thin
grave-digger and former smoker, his hands
shake when he holds her

purse. He and I prowl
along the edges of the graveyard
while Janet goes on and listens.
At home in Toronto

he cremates bodies,
tells families that they can’t watch
him work, even when curiosity begs,
because only he, only Kevin, can handle the lifting
and shutting, only he can handle

lighting the furnace, lighting the fire that shivers
bones back to dirt. Yes, only Kevin knows

what happens when faces disappear real slow.
              He says he just has to think of them as logs.
And aren’t you glad it’s not you? Aren’t you lucky

that he does that
and that you can kind of ride
behind the car on a skateboard
with a rope and a helmet.

KALLIE BLAKELOCK is a former high school teacher who recently relocated from Charm City to Tampa. She is a poet who explores things like sorrow, bodies of water, and her own mind. Though she’s far from the salty Eastern Shore of Maryland where she was raised, Kallie loves the sunshine and community she has encountered during her time as an MFA student in poetry at the University of South Florida. She lives with her obese cats, Mowgli and Mona. This is her first publication.