You struck the rock, prophet
with a shovel until
yellow cryptograms strewn out
rose in the breeze relieved the
rustling of bible leaves on your neck.
Broke your voice for us like
a pomegranate offered me a seed
with pain in your face I liked
to stare at and searching
my head frantic, your eyes were a little boy
some treasure always spread encrusted
under the first layer of earth
handed us linens and grandmother quilts
to cover over ground. You ached
for a death
we’d need to stir the dirt
a stir perhaps pull out a waif
in your old clothes. people-
clients told me despite it all
I looked like the soul
of my father. A sacred pause
in me each instance. That night
I stirred through my head words
to find a gentle lure for your ghost
without you even knowing.