You Don’t Name Dead Things

By Zachary Lundgren

I think about my bones too often
these days, walking behind a girl
in those boots. The early itch

of spring taking the air, our throats;
I taste sugar and would sing,
but come on. Her white dress

in the breeze is not surrender.
A girl in those boots, she makes me
forget knives, fences, the shovel I’m carrying.

We find heavy in the grass attempting burial:

the dead horse

decay arrived days before

the dead horse

eyes invaded in flies

the dead horse

its guts made cave, hollowed red.

Despite the flies, she descends she kneels
to stroke its mane. I kiss
the side of her face I taste tightness
in my throat from the smell
probably but her closed eyes like hope like seeds
in wait and wait she says –

I wait to begin digging


Zachary Lundgren received his MFA in poetry from the University of South Florida and his BA in English from the University of Colorado at Boulder and grew up in northern Virginia. He has had poetry published in several literary journals and magazines including The Louisville Review, The Portland Review, Barnstorm Journal, The Adirondack Review, and the University of Colorado Honors Journal. He was nominated for the 2012 AWP Intro Journals Award and was awarded the Estelle J. Zbar Poetry Prize in 2012. He is also a poetry editor for Sweet: A Literary Confection and a founding editor of Blacktop Passages.