At every burial I
have been the
last one to lend shoulder
to the straw bed.
Those clods of earth
I could never pick for the
last rites, for my habit of
standing far away from the grave.
Fear did not come
in the way, in fact
I had always found freshly dug
grave soft and comforting,
Even imagined lowering in
at every heartbreak.
I hopped in my father's place
to measure up the size
although he was much taller
in all aspects of life and death.
My girls would not know of these
clods of earth, I do not regret
having picked them to raise the mound
or
having stood well away
only for the similarity to stoning.
