Two dollars for the gravedigger.
Three on a Sunday, to put
the hole in the ground. To take a cold
shovel in tattered leather gloves, to push
hard against the frozen soil, to feel it pierce,
finally, yield in chunks and crumbles. Pay
so he will make this dream in the earth for
pine and dead flowers, for old bones, young
hearts, broken chains. He will work, sweat,
as black naked branches arc and tangle, black birds call, breath fogs
and freezes, his skin is dry. The ground will
swallow wood and nails, chew it up, grind it to
dust, and the grass will grow and die above it. Two dollars
to be sent to the gravedigger, who perhaps
between shovelfuls wonders
who will sleep here. Who feels between aching shoulders
the thousand widow's hearts, the holes he has yet to make, all
filled, every one. Pay the gravedigger, quick,
before he shakes the dirt from his hands.
And then sybs doesthis thing
where she paints the scenery so vivid in your mind
you feel as if you were standing there next
to someone,telling them this.
unaware that it sound's like a poem
You two are standing there,
Seeing the man dig a grave.
and you're talking and someone
wrote everything you said and
it turned into this.
grr, how did I miss this before.
I am sick and tired of how good you are
no joke baby, joke...
such a creepy little write I love it.
5 years ago
by Tara Kay
:O I am positively speechless Sibs...
How dark and eerie, what a thought to have, and what a way to express it...
The process of a gravedigger's thoughts...just WOW...
I often wonder on my own burial, although I'd rather be cremated because I can't bare to think of my bones rotting underground and people visiting my grave on birthdays, anniversaries...to grim a thought...
but WOW again, speechless