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.

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