Grave Flower

I set the shovel at my feet

And press.

It slides into the wet earth,

A knife into butter.

The grave –

Humped,

Patted,

Filled –

Stretches out before me.

I ache

Deep inside

As if all the dirt I piled

Came from my chest

And left a hole

As I smoothed it down.

I can't look, can't look away,

So I study my shoes.

A tiny,

Brilliant,

Beautiful

Johnny Jump-up

Nods over my toes.