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,


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


I can’t help but go back to being small