Thirsty roots

May 28

We buried my father on a rise
under a jack pine where steam rose
from the fresh-dug grave, colliding
with January air.

My sons unloaded the casket
from the back of a pickup and walked it
to the open grave, a Star of David
carved on the coffin lid.

For years my father railed against
synagogues, Zionism, all kinds
of God talk–evangelical
in his atheism.

But in the end, when I asked
one last time if I could bury him
when he died, he shrugged and said
if it means so much to you.

It did. It does. As his last gift,
he let me bury him a Jew.

Now the Star of David rests
above his chest as thirsty roots
of the jack pine mingle
with heartache and nettle.

Poet; speech pathologist, wife, mother, grandmother. Her book of poetry, Where Blue is Blue, was published in October, ’20, by Main Street Rag.

Every other Tuesday