by Siddiq Islam
The sky is cloud, our breaths are mist.
I sink my teeth into purple lips
And make an incision. He plunges a fist
Of lupin bulb into the soil’s dark skin.
The ground is hard (September now),
So things don’t want to enter in,
But he shows me the way to twist my hips,
Lean into the hilt of the plastic spade,
And slit the earth. This is how.
If done our way, a hole is made.
We are efficient, without word.
The silence is our concentration.
‘Dinner’s ready!’ has long been heard,
But Mother does not understand
That there are bigger things at play,
Things to bury, things at hand,
This man my closest male relation.
Like father, like son, or so they say,
Bonding tighter than leaves in books,
Two crouched bisectors of grass blades.
With hands on hips, we proudly look
And smile at all the scars we’ve made.