Suicide's Grave
by Brandon Lewis
We agree it’s the right thing,
a year later, and in a swarm
of mosquitoes we take turns
with a shovel off-trail at a stand
of cedars, take turns throwing
handfuls of dirt into a hole whitened
by your ashes, a sapling stuck
in its center. Rain patters
on leaves and drooping ferns,
drips from your father’s bald
head as he kneels down
and smooths the earth level
around the stalk, his touch caring
and precise like a gardener’s.
Everything he wishes he had said.
On the walk back to our cars
in the parking lot, the green
slopes of Mt. Pilchuck showing
through clouds, we give each
other quick looks, we nod not only
because you beat these trails,
or because you weren’t granted
a funeral service—not even a party
where everyone who knew you
could get shit-faced and blast
your favorite metal songs on the stereo--
but because a mind, whether
conscious or dreaming isn’t suited
to be a grave, and finally we needed
to put you someplace else.
a year later, and in a swarm
of mosquitoes we take turns
with a shovel off-trail at a stand
of cedars, take turns throwing
handfuls of dirt into a hole whitened
by your ashes, a sapling stuck
in its center. Rain patters
on leaves and drooping ferns,
drips from your father’s bald
head as he kneels down
and smooths the earth level
around the stalk, his touch caring
and precise like a gardener’s.
Everything he wishes he had said.
On the walk back to our cars
in the parking lot, the green
slopes of Mt. Pilchuck showing
through clouds, we give each
other quick looks, we nod not only
because you beat these trails,
or because you weren’t granted
a funeral service—not even a party
where everyone who knew you
could get shit-faced and blast
your favorite metal songs on the stereo--
but because a mind, whether
conscious or dreaming isn’t suited
to be a grave, and finally we needed
to put you someplace else.
Brandon Lewis was born in Seattle, Washington and lives with his wife and children just north of Centralia where he teaches high school English. In 2018, he received his MFA from the Rainier Writing Workshop at Pacific Lutheran University. His poems have recently appeared in Talking River, Superstition Review, Nashville Review, and The Tusculum Review.