Preservationist [American sonnet in American sentences] for WD
what do you call a man, old, unmarried and outliving his children? do you call him, do you let him send your children his old belongings? I know he doesn’t want anyone to feel sorry for him, it’s just he lives alone there, no heirs, with a library of biology guides to spiders, venomous snakes of Tennessee, wildlife of the south every week they arrive mummified in packing tape and grocery bags estate sale preemption, keepsakes widowed into the arms of strangers he sends each book wrapped more tightly than the last, handwriting unraveled to index card, thumbprint smudge notarized, legacy the task at hand let the kids lay into it, their excitement breaking safety scissors this is the natural order of things, this is the future, this is it I saw him on the news, nearly eighty, snatching a timber rattler shirtless in the woods, all tendons and lightning and ferocious smile he said, preserving a habitat means caring for the hard to love
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Edie Meade is a writer in Petersburg, Virginia. Recently published in Room Magazine, Invisible City, The Harvard Advocate, JMWW, The Normal School, and Litro.
Twitter: @ediemeade Instagram and Threads: @edie_thee_meade
