poembury

Burying My Father



Your body lies beneath my hand,
a cold stone.

You look good.  Better than
when dying perhaps, but fixed
like a photograph fresh from a chemical bath.
What kind of death in people
makes them love this
preservation?

I want to drag you
out of that box by your arm pits,
throw you in the back of the car and
bury you in the garden like a dead cat,
nothing between you and the raw soil you tilled,
billions of hungry mouths ready
to eat you out of the limits of your skin,
guts exploding with gases like a newborn star,
the grass by the fence row
sparkling with spring rain,
waving in the wind,
roots reaching softly down
into your corpse
to resurrect it.

                        --Poetry East, spring 2007