The Burden of Fossils II
Gay Brewer
And the next day was worse. Wind boomed outside
like artillery, tables and chairs sprawled into groves.
Almond trees bent like sticks. Below a swirling viaduct,
the men retired to their heavy trucks to smoke.
Every spade the gardener raised came down empty.
An elemental battle was being fought, one you're wiser
out of. In 1966, an American B-52 lost four hydrogen
bombs in the fields of Palomares. It's easy to be
dramatic in the desert. To use a phrase like doomsday
wind. The pants on the clothesline were a twisted mess.
A student archeologist from Granada huddled in the
pit with her young professor. It's lonely digging the past,
where you have to scream to hear yourself whisper.
At this rate, their findings would return to the earth
by evening, the careful labels erased like waves over
a name carved in sand. The arms and faces covered gray,
their legs, their lips, their eyes, sealed forever in
that first dry embrace. It's hard work, and you eat late.
The lanterns swing. The sky explodes and dust answers.
