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
