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Ron Fields |
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Visions of James I saw his eyes open because a television show told me they might; yet I know they were stitched together, the corneas staring into the back of his head, pale blue and glazed with death. An old black hearse comes swooping around the curves near my childhood home, on its way to Uncle James' final resting place. As it rounds a hill, the back flies open and out spills his chestnut coffin, gleaming in the moonlight, slowly opening to reveal his resurrected secrets to me. Other visions are of poker games in graveyards that my grandpa's father used to speak of; dead friends playing five card draw with jokers wild, dead wives making lemonade and spreading gossip. Uncle James might hold that joker in his hand, assuming of course that I'm able to stuff him back in his coffin and carry him up the hill. |