No Grave Can Hold My Body Down

Aaron McCollough

A sample poem from the book

Threshhold: The True Vine

To what place? Is that my breath on the glass?

In the light of day, the birds in the street, the air. The birds on the branches.
Is it flies?

Is it a burning service station? A spot of color on the night?

After a storm, it’s all littered with branches. We gather them for kindling.
After the winter, every color of tulip, encaustic by the roadside.

The father. The husband.

The son. The true vine.

But the American parable is not quite like this.

We are the people,

those people shuffling across the lawn.