You came expecting loam
that you could sink your teeth into,
that would smell of dew,
that would maybe make breath,
but this is dirt, this is dust
and it sticks to your lungs
and cakes your tongue
and hardens your spine because
there is no water, no rain, nothing save
that warmth blurring your vision,
stinging your prayer-worn lips,
and staining the earth,
but you don’t notice because all you can see
are those fingers, cut like marble, and
your own—
shaking
but digging
like threading a needle to make
waves through tough muslin—
you placed the wee one
into the ground
and he was silent
and the earth was barren
and he was silent
and the earth was barren
