Carry through the day.

A small cloth bag tight in her fingers it was

 made from the same cloth they used to make her mom’s body bag.

 Her purse held close tight to her body, arms held closed in all around it,

 she took a moment to look inside and then offered me a throat lozenge

One she had bought for her mom the day before.

Men carried that particle board box, lowered it and took the shovels,    

muscled arms and bare tattooed legs,  

their voices singing while the earth is falling,

shovels dipping in water against that sticky clay.

Daughter mother

daughter mother, a slow knowing in my chest.

Glad at least this, to be the men’s job.

But then I saw them, women quietly coming up behind and picking up clods of dirt to throw on the grave, women holding this job too, doing it all everything from beginning to end.

Mother and daughter  holding on and letting go.  

And those heavy clods of clay were one more thing I had to carry through that day.