exhumation

Let me press my ear against your ribs
to hear
the hammering within,
to hear the gut and the breathing,
the soft sighs --
It's spring, finally,
and the tenderest of things are easing their stiff parts
into the sunlight.
Sun bright on the newly-turned earth of winter's grave.
It's the bright heat inside your car
that makes the stupid metal box into a womb.


In my recent experience,
spring is when people pass away,
and this week has been no exception.
What shall I cry? All people are grass,
their constancy is like the flower of the field.

Kindly lay me down
in the park, unwrapped
to thaw, like so much meat on the countertop,
like something the Inuit forgot to bury --

be brave, look at me in the light --
kneel down beside me, tell me if you hear
anything.