Sweet Potato Haircut

 

One half Grave

It’s hard for me to even breathe right now-

because wait, 

Wait,

sweet cells every

breath I take

you sew and unsew 

a million polar bonds

in the grain of sand

that is a second,

over a neverending beach of 

time, while I spend the Grand Tetons

deciding which bagel is best. You take in the air

and turn it gray

for the plants to clean

a hundred times over

in the twitch of an eyelash

blowing in the sweet September breeze,

and I ask

Earth, will you remember me?

When I am in your arms again?

One Full Grave

It’s easy to write about death 

when your grave is made

of earth

when you imagine laying down to hold 

the hands of reaching flowers

reaching dark and deep

into the ocean, into the sea

of dirt and earthen memories,

when you imagine the 

cacophony of clamoring

and the heavy hum of life,

rooty and damp and

pulsing 

      pulsing

           pulsing 

                  pulsing 

                       pulsing

and you are all space and seeds and silence.