Infinite Earth

Carry a body—
               which body, does it matter—
inside a casket built of your hands
               in a combi where the body’s last days
had traveled NE —› WA —› AZ —› entered
               México, then Guerrero—Teloloapan—
& now Tepozonalquillo.
               Dig a hole in ground, before: earth
those same hands into soil & ask, Who have I harmed
               in this life? Who am I w/o blooded hands?
A knife left by an untraced foot marks
               where to lay the body—fácil.
& as you dig for thirty days—a foot a day—
               on day eight, nod your head to abuelito & bisabuelita,
who have waited for a descendant’s choice of lay.
               A voice will inquire: Have you forgiven all who have murdered
you & I—does it matter? Have you traced the root of origin
               even at the expense of your own life?
A life of lead, I am led to state: iron, cross, shovel, gate.
               Is there not a reason to lock cemetery doors
out of security—not for the dead—but as desire’s duty
               to be by those who speak: Have you forgiven your life?
Have you forgiven your hands?
               & you dig & dig until surely you say, Yes.
Lie in your grave—exactly, there—
               a casket opening, arms crossed,
w/ palms on a marked body; yours—