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stick shoes stuck in cemetery dirt
punching aeration holes in the grass
I wobble watching the sun sink, shovels clink
turn them upside down to show you mean it,
that each scoop (earth perched on the back of the tool) is imbued
with intention, so heavy, like
the casket that wouldn’t drop
you held on to the above-ground,
to the place where you could give…
but this is the final donation.
later, the mourning chairs -
I (the gentile) almost sit in one, not noticing
its three siblings, all solid wood
low to the ground
“they’re supposed to make you uncomfortable,” says Amy,
and frame your grief bodily
reminding you why all you’ll do for a week is sit, eat, receive.
to myself I make a note of the breaking happiness
and laughter, and imagine you sitting among us,
fussing to make sure all were fed
before finally settling in your chair,
to beat alex trebek at jeopardy.
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compelled posted this
