New Dirt
By: Loukia Borrell
London Grip
2021
They show up in their Sunday best.
Flowing skirts, pressed chinos
Hair combed back, ties straight.
Father’s Day at the cemetery
and the children of dead men are here,
forming semi-circles and linking
arms, bowing heads and pointing
to the yellow blooms on day lilies.
He’d love them, they whisper.
But they don’t cry and they
don’t stick around. Too hot.
Oh, they see you. Feel sorry for
you, too, as they head on home.
A sideways glance your way and
knowing smiles. He’s new here.
Poor guy, musta just lost his dad,
just days or weeks, ya think? Yeah,
by the looks of the grave. New dirt.
I’ve slowed down from tending a
grave near him. He is on his knees
smoothing out the dirt clods
with his palms. He’s empty
inside and out. Doesn’t even have
a headstone or a blade of grass
growing through the earth.
“This just happened?” I ask. “Yes,
my son.” You gulp down your pain,
trying to bury it, like you did him,
before dropping your body and soul
into a chair so low, I tell myself it will
be a miracle if you ever get back up.
