and why should burying my father’s father
feel more like digging up a grave
than putting someone in it?
i thought we dropped that shovel
18 years ago, half of my blood
my father’s frozen fist
under a cold midwestern snow.
dad used to say the size of the fist
is equal to the size of the heart,
and from ear to stethoscope to breastbone
we hear lub dub.
(he preferred luv dub.)
so caught in a tangle of emotion
i held that shovel yesterday
a child again
that digging a grave for my grandfather
aside the now frozen ash of my father
would find me palms down
amongst earthworms, springtime and bulbs
piercing into frozen fists and bleeding them back to life.
pulsing that half of my blood from black
to red, luv dub.
but i’m not that child
and the shovel is too heavy.
and springtime is in my fists now