I'm going to spend my life digging graves
with my hands, as if it's all sand on the shore
where they sleep, on a hill buried in a blanket
as they dream and wait for a morning sun.
My shovel and a bucket here to make room as they lay
and lightly touch the ground, my palm on the earth
to hear their whispers sigh, and see their colors twist
on the blade of a leaf, upon leaf, upon leaf
among the rows
where my departed sleep, where my longing grows.

Clean breaks are long stainless steel
Knives through a swatch of meat in an icebox.
Amputation just before fatality,
Born out of necessity;
Don’t cry yet, I haven’t even made the first cut

You were there in the yard,
Knees deep in a fountain of mud
While listening to birds rustling their twigs
Talking to the sun going down,
A yell from the back door that dinner is on
Crickets are singing, their violin legs stretched
And tuned.
The day isn’t done, the play isn’t gone.
Messy haired, sugar-breathed wonder.
You’re only five.