Recent Work By Rebecca Keith

What girls, what girls. Everyone stopped
to admire our pinafores on every street in town.
To the Ben Franklin we’d trot, pennies in hand for sweets.
You liked the chocolates and I,
butterscotch. Old lady already? I’m not even old yet by what they say it is
but a maid is not a maid when mending stops and all decay. Drama, you say,

At midnight the president says, We have taken custody of his body. The next day the radio says he was buried at sea, as is the custom. At sea, the custom. To take custody of a body. As in, we will take it every other weekend to our house across town—

Who called it— time of death?