i.m. RCH
Rusting in the corner of our yard, a shovel
hangs from a nail.
It has dug ditches in its day,
furrowed the soil for crops,
hollowed graves in the living earth,
raised blisters on generations of hands.
Its blade is dull now, its handle
splintering around crumbled rivets.
My father used this shovel to excavate
the roots of the dead sycamore
which shattered the walls of our home.
Today it is my father who is diseased,
too weak to threaten anything.
Yet still he brandishes
the ghost of this shovel in death’s face
swears he will take that scythe
and smash it.
Not long now until I must take another shovel,
raise my own crop of blisters, digging
where once a sycamore grew.