CLEANING GRAVE

a couple of hours this
late May afternoon
the hot wind blowing
dust through the
headstones at the
Paiute Cemetery

I reshaped your mound
with rake and shovel
after discarding the
faded cloth flowers
and broken vases
to replace them
with others of vibrant
color and gemlike glass

one more year and I
like to get a few days
jump on the Memorial
Day crowd who come to
clean with their picnics
and unflavored talk
and be alone

just you and I and the
wind

how the hot earth of
your grave feels like
your breasts and stomach
as my flat hand
molds the heap

remembering the many times
just like this you and I
cleaned the graves of
your children and unknown
relatives who perished
on the now long gone Rez
in back seats of grey
black cars clutching
onto precious bottles
that held the miracle

we were sometimes half
drunk ourselves and those
nights my flat hand
would mold your flesh
before you took me into
you the soil of graves
on our hands mixing with
our sweat creating the
finger paintings of
our lives our love

now I kiss and tongue the
heart on your headstone
before standing up
ceremoniously with a
quart of Miller's in
my hand proud of my
work

a Janitor at the place
of the dead

always having to turn
and walk away towards the
places of the living
where only memories can
conquer the dust and
these tears mean
nothing