the dead

There was a girl who lived 100 years ago
Lying in a field
Thinking about the girl who had lived 100 years before her
Thinking of the one who came before her

Each wondering when their predecessor began
To panic
!
Was it now?

Looking at the sky
Wondering why
The dirt wouldn’t wash off
Their fingertips

Staring down a hole
Wondering why
We had been doomed
To live
On a rock hurdling through nothingness

Looking at a baton
In their fist
Clenched
In a naïve grip that fit the
Circumference of their neck

It was the same scene
With the same memories
The same fears
The same itch on their foot

But the fear was fresh
Anew
Wet like the dew on the ground
That would evaporate
And return

With the sun
Not rising and setting
With hope anew
But clicking
Through a clock
Counting down
Until the next girl in a field
Discovers
the
same
Panic