my brother dug a deep, then deeper hole
the backyard hole to nowhere
what kind of a family allows for that kind of hole?
through the earth to the other side, he said
like the cop who dug until his shovel
hit something solid, the wrist of a murdered woman
if you dig long enough you might find the why
. . . accident, crime, bad blood, old age . . .
knowing the why doesn’t relieve the ache
from the window I watched my brother dig
or I stood close but not too close to the rim of the hole
in case he decided to throw dirt at me
he was covered in dirt while I was taught to be clean
it took me ten years to relearn dirty
to throw sod root-side up into trenches
pile dark soil on top, my first growing season
. . . babies, vegetables, extra-marital tomfoolery . . .
when photographs are black & white
blood might be paint, or vice versa
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