As sand falls from a sand dollar
set on a shelf far from the seashore
(the tide pools of Oregon),
so do the seasons shift and leaves drop,
weighted with rain from a gunmetal sky.
It muddies the
unmarked grave,
the shoveled
dirt, blackened and coarse,
unlike his face, clean-shaven
on the blade of the mortician.
Lids drawn over
the sterling blue eyes,
tie straightened
and mouth closed,
tight-lipped, as
our father never was.
The mouth isn’t right, my sister
whispered
as the kneeler
wobbled under our connected sorrow.
I checked his
pockets, like a child for a coin,
climbing on a
lap, cool and deep, and empty.
Linked to the Tuesday Platform (Poets Choice) at The Imaginary Garden.