Carry my body—
                               Ian MacKaye

We grew up behind our old farmhouse,
ruling acres of forest, cornfields.

Men cut down our trees so we ran
across jungled wasteland, balancing

on pine-corpses, our weight cracking stale
branches. This swamp of pulped bark,
we paddled away from gators. This war

zone, we hid from enemies behind hollowed
logs. The trees have all grown

back now and we still talk
behind screens.