Digging a Grave

Digging a Grave

I start by marking four corners.

Uncurling a worn ribbon of line tape,

I measure the edges, then

perforate the perimeter with

a hickory handled spade.

To the two red-tailed hawks

perched above me in the cedars,

it must look like a long bed,

a morbid, four-poster affair,

its thin sheet of crab grass

tucked trimly under the mattress.

Next, I shear off the top layer

of grass and roots and twigs,

to expose a pad of black soil, 

an oversized door that leads

to a room no one wants to see.

Then the real labor begins,

the long slog of shoveling.

I am all shoulders and forearms,

shifting clockwise around

this room I’m forming.

Outside, the mounds slowly rise,

dark piles of linens, old blankets

waiting to be washed and folded. 

I work with slow and shallow breaths,

careful not to wake the folks

asleep in the next dark room.

Already they cover their heads

with heavy pillows of stone

to drown out all this sound.