They felt the wind on the down of their necks.
 
After the murders, children 

in the town dreamed of houses 
melting into the sky.

Fear built its hive inside them.
But as they grew
 
their memories dwindled 
like their bicycles that became too small to ride.

The graves

lay buried beneath the trees’
shadows. Parents split
 
and moved away. One sister
 
survived. One witnessed the dark ceiling

of every midnight 
fall into her thoughts.

Reminders kept surfacing: a red bike

hooked to a chain link fence, 
a note folded in a pocket

and put through the wash

until she couldn’t read it, until
it was grit between her fingers. But

she knew — You will only be a ghost
sliding through the trees.

This crumbling. Once upon a time 

she sank her foot into the shoulder

of a shovel.