Bring a Shovel and Pail in Feathery Turnings

The rain was black snake oil on the grass.
Look at the road catch slowly and stretch far!
Still, the luck blood in my truck screamed, “Go FAST!”
And left a burnout mark on the blacktop.

I was birthed out of the cab on wet stones
And crawled northwest thinking I was still whole.
You left me then, piecing the map alone,
Licking its edges and smoothing its folds.

Seven miles! I walked the soy blister fields.
Lone bones shivered free from slackened skin-
Which flip flopped to the earth and congealed.
(You found it later and sewed moccasins)

Reaching our childhood farmhouse I died.
A plastic shovel dug my cemetery.
Here in our flooded sandbox I abide,
Waiting for your pail mouth to bury me.

(For mi Hermano grande)