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March 21, 2012


I read the history of a nearby beach
Affectionately called “the Edge of America”
As it happens, in the 1700s, this sandy stretch of land
Was rather less affectionately called “Coffin Island”
Due to ships passing by from the harbor
To lay their cholera dead to rest
In shallow, sandy graves
And sail on

How easily graves become the foundations
Of something else
How coffins
Become towns

This is time’s gift
Softening grief’s jagged edges
Turning marrow and bone to dust
Calling our attention back
To the shimmering sunrise



Post a comment
  1. Em #
    March 21, 2012

    Love it!

  2. March 21, 2012

    Your dad would be proud of you for looking into that sunshine, Dear. xo

    • March 21, 2012

      Thanks, friend. I appreciate your kind words…made me all welly!

  3. March 22, 2012

    i love you jenny badman

  4. March 23, 2012

    A most interesting bit of history in the poem….enjoyed you verse.

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