Gravedigger

R.H. DeVault

Winter burials are always the hardest.

The pickaxed clay lets in the water

and makes the shoulders of the stones

shrug and sigh while settling in.

Some can hardly stand the idea

of losing more to the ground.

The maw takes in what you send it.

I’ve seen mothers use their own purses

to shovel water out of lifeboat-sized

plots. Your boy ain’t drowned Ma’am.

He’s just gone. Give it time and let

it settle – I say softly, but they don’t

hear me. It’s normal. Their anguish

stares past me. None of this is normal.

They don’t understand, it’s messy now.

But they gotta leave them there.

One day they’ll come back to

see blankets of iceblink casting glow

and their chaos will feel smaller.

Hard rains are gonna fall so

then the green will up. That lifeboat

of earth will stop its exhale and life will

cling to black branches. That’s where

you’ll find your boy, Ma’am. That’s

where he’ll be.