the money buried in the yard
was like the poetry buried in your chest
not all of it would be recovered, some of it
lost forever
a dog is only pregnant for two months at a time
if you broke me open then
it would have been like the guts of piñata spilling
onto concrete
you’d have to dig deep to hit the marrow, to
suck the fat
we left a marker there
for ourselves to find later
but the landscape has changed
the unknown
has come to live and eat
and hibernate all over again
the alluvial sands of the job, the wash of traffic
the love you made in your backyard
the terrain all looks like a bad haircut and
who’s to say where it has gone to, the heart
pumping veins of gold
up through the earth?
where is the baby that you once were?
when your dad first resented you
and your mother held you close?
where is the poetry that your mother harbored
all those months?
buried just below the surface
like a million bucks
the answer to a lifelong riddle
it won’t be easy
to find
By Walker Rose