Grandfather's Burial

You sat beside me at the table long before I sat before your coffin.

Father cried, but helped carry your coffin to the place we'd bury you.

I touched my hand on the hard case and imagined slipping in beside you.

As the congregation bowed their heads,

I leaned over the hole to ask you, Grandpa? What does dirt taste like?

You responded with a laugh, Dear child, how would I know?

I played in your backyard, enjoying the softness of the grass,

the strangeness of the worms, and how small their mouths were.

I asked you, Granpa? What does dirt taste like?

You responded with a laugh, How would I know, dear child?

You took me to a ball game, and I didn't know the rules.

A player slid to third, face-first.

And I asked you, Grandpa? What does dirt taste like?

You responded with a laugh, My dear, how would I know?

You couldn't hold my hand as you were lowered, so I squeezed it for you,

the same way you do at your kitchen table.

You never close the curtain, so I look out into the yard,

and pick my next point of play.

Today, it'd be the mound on your grave.

I'll make sure to dig a little hole so you can hear my question

as I ask you, Grandpa? What does dirt taste like?