Member-only story
The Churn
We live in a loft in the back
of the old post office in Ontario,
built in 1926.
At night, my dead whisper to me
that this is not an ancient place.
It is not even old.
They whisper that no place on Earth is.
They tell me the ground
is churning, slower than water,
but replacing itself still.
This poem and painting are from “The Dead” a collection Jane Edberg and John Brantingham are developing together.









