A man sat at his farmstand, respectfully suspicious, offered a New England nod. Across the street, a few squat tombstones, stubborn, salt eroded.

Aaron, Isaac, Elijah. Storm-struck  

fishermen wave-washed from life. 
Della, Dorinda, Suzanne 

scarlet with fever 
and typhoid. Lost to fetuses 
refusing to be birthed. 

Toddler on my hip, we moved from grave to grave, a funeral procession of two. Carved in marble, “Girl.” Beneath it, entombed in glass, a daguerreotype, a baby, alive just one day, unetched by history.

I lowered my daughter to her feet, 

watched her teeter 
between the dead, 

her cheeks bright with sun, 
busy hands telling stories, 
the round blue shoes.  

—Short-listed Finalist in MacQ’s Cheribun Challenge #2

Bio: Tina Barry