The Ground
By Mario Chard
Say they still
tie ropes to the caskets
of immigrants they find
in the desert. That a rope
saves time should
someone come looking.
Say it was a man.
It was. There is
a boy mowing
the cemetery lawn.
He is perfect
at cutting close.
Go in. How will I know
when it’s close?
The ground
unpacked above his box
remade the box
above the ground.
Sit down. Say he sat down.
Where? It matters
that they sat so close.
How many? Fourteen.
Make room. The mower
stops to move a vase.
The sweetest dream
that labor knows. His space
marked at the gate —
unknown male.
What could he do
in the van without space?
Say he was sleeping.
Did he dream? Yes.
And after the crash?
Died in the dream.
Inside. Or woke
in the sand. The brush.
The ground was his dream.
Legs pulled up in a van
dream of ground.
Under now. Wake up,
the mower says.
He has stopped
where I lie. His face.
You have aged, I say.
Wake up.
I am looking up.
Will you still age?
His face is changed.
Source: Poetry (January 2018)