Magazine and writing resources 

Maura High

Our road has become a boneyard

for children—

skulls, skeletons

litter the verges,

stick out of the red clay, or lie

in untidy heaps.

The road has become a funeral

of all the ones we lost.

R.I.P.,

dear or not, the coffins, the black plumes,

the procession of ravens and pumpkin heads—

a masque of children

and parents trailing

their own famished ghosts and hobgoblins.

Every year, the same tricks.

Caw, caw.