coronilla blooms now
by the bridge
where I poured out his ashes
across the creek
I see the ghost of a groundhog
popping up between tobacco shoots,
whistling—
I remember blowing him away
and cutting off his spindly tail to keep
even if I am alone now
I don’t cry when I hear the thunder
of a shotgun
still I try to make solid
the malleable thoughts
of wanting him to be proud,
listening in my head
to his story of piling snow boulders
on the road
so the bus couldn’t pass ‘cross the bridge
I don’t know why
it was so hard to get through,
he always seemed to listen
and I know he loved me
I don’t cry with the thunder of
a shotgun anymore
but when i think of
how amazing it was to hear my father
whistling,
I can’t help but go back to being small
