My Grandfather's Funeral

poem for workshop alternating trimeter and tetrameter

My Grandfather’s Funeral

My grandfather dug a shelter
In the side of a hill,
Behind his trailer in Mississippi.
My sister and I would play
For hours in the damp dark.
We were bears sleeping.
We were feral,
Clawing our fingers into dirt,
Hunting black bugs.
Later he whipped us
For soiling the floor.
Our tears streaked white
Through muddy cheeks.
We wore his hand
Like battle scars.

My grandfather now lies in his casket.
Face polished, skin smooth,
Eye sockets sunken.
His cheeks are hollow, white.
One hand covers another.
We do not stay for the burial,
But drive by as they lower him,
Shovel dirt on top.
This I watch from the rear window.