The Parade of Death Requires Labor
by Blake Kilgore
A gloved man, covered
in dust and sweat, leans on his shovel, staring
into the earth, his future home, at the coffin-sized
wound he’s cut for another, six feet down.
An hour from now,
in the adjoining grove,
a preacher will commence
the farewell.
Now, the gravedigger’s partner backs
his truck onto the lawn, lowers
the tailgate, pulls down and unfolds
chairs, arranges them
neatly on the grass, ordering
rows for the suffering to sit side by side,
shoulder to shoulder
in dark suits
and hooded gowns,
eyes cast down or
gazing aloft, wet with grief, glazed
with shock, twitching with
unresolved questions, but they’ll be
sitting, resting legs and backs and hips so hearts
can contemplate loss.
While friends and family mourn, the two men stand quietly
in the back, for their work is not done until the goodbye is complete,
ceremonial handfuls of dirt released, the muddy hole filled in,
and the empty chairs replaced.
Later, the partner turns the key, pumps the engine back
to life, drives through the open gate, and an interval of silence
lingers between the two men riding the cemetery lane.
On the other side of town the gravedigger will sigh,
place a hand on his partner’s shoulder and point
toward a roadhouse, where the two men will go in to share a drink.
Blake Kilgore is the author of Leviathan (2021), a collection of poetry. His writing has appeared in Barely South Review, Flint Hills Review, Lunch Ticket, and other fine journals.
