Burying Things

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.

The Poor Print

Established in 2013, The Poor Print is the student-run newspaper of Oriel College, Oxford, written by members of the JCR, MCR, SCR and staff. New issues are published fortnightly during term. Our current Executive Editors are Siddiq Islam and Jerric Chong.

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