Windover, Florida

Fetal in the bog they lay, heads pointed west,
when the backhoe lifted clay from clay.
Skulls in the bucket. Whose were they?
Police said: Not from the prosecutable era
of crime. Science time. They found traces
of elderberry, death’s last stay, staining the muck
where stomachs decayed, which led them
to say this had been a burial ground. And the bodies
were staked down to keep them underwater—
it was a water tomb. Carbon said seven thousand years,
brains dead and pickled in the brine. They fed them
to the oracle, but DNA pronounced unclear.
Whose were they? The issue remained fogged.
A few made them white as if that were a light
to prove they’ve a right to this land.
But their land is sand—we’re all brown as the bog.


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