Family Plots

                   for Colin

Avoiding the work of weeding

is a habit handed down from my dad,

a piss-poor farmer who’d only raised

Hell and a few eyebrows.

Panicky days I wish I could be

the good gardeners my brothers are,

plant some burgandy lupine or painted pansies

neatly in short-clipped grass.


But I must find my own

headstone, discover my faith in earth

rich in blood. The sandy hole

we dug on Petty Creek holds the fired

remains of our father. Funny,


My Old Man liked reading

cemetery markers, wanted to be buried

in a gunny sack. We did it wrong:

left him bound in a strong plastic bag

sealed inside a cardboard box.

We dropped him square in the ground,

staged a silly B-movie conclusion.

Only Mother’s tears played right.


Weeks later, my brother and I

resurrected Dad, our final family plot

as outlaw sons. Afternoon grave-robbers

digging gold dust and whispering our need

to be good boys again, we cut his smothering

shroud, freed the flinty ash at last,

our skin and bones, to breathe deeply

the burlap—soil and stone. We put him back

in the dirt, sent him home.


Mark Gibbons

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