We keep going back to the cemetery,
turn graves upside-down.
We can see feet of the underworld
this way, can still grasp
pink toes, wash feet and roots
we lost along the way.
Pray they won’t disintegrate
into earth for good, creaking
Whispers, though we aren’t listening,
though we aren’t breathing
the way our father told us to:
It’s all in the ears, his timbre voice
outlines the crown-molding,
foundations have disappeared.
It’s all in the rotation…
Yet when my veins and mind crack,
I can’t blame the candle placed
in the corner dancing in its own lush glow,
pushed by his ghosted hand.