Vox Populi
A curated webspace for Poetry, Politics, and Nature with over 20,000 daily subscribers and over 8,000 archived posts.
Arlene Weiner: Pinky
Last week I took a shovel from a prepared heap, scooped earth easily, turned, threw it onto your coffin, plain pine. Now I lean hard on a spade, press into a hill of my making, good tilth. I spread it, seed grass. I sweat. I move earth as if to make the whole world even. This is my yard. I’m intimate with the dirt here, the worms, can tell by the sound what resists: the blade strikes thin plates of slate, hard mill waste, tough roots, coal, signs of who came before— Indian head penny, tiny car, water-green marble. At ninety-five you were so small I could have carried you alone, laid you down, lowered your body into the grave.
Copyright 2022 Arlene Weiner
Arlene Weiner’s books include More (Ragged Sky, 2022). She lives in Pittsburgh.
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Such heart in those descriptions.
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Yes, we experience the death of our pets as a loss equal to that of a family member.
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“At ninety-five you were so small…”
We all have known, and perhaps will be, that person.
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Leaning hard into the hill of our own making, recognizing the archive we uncover/recover. Thanks Arlene!
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The descriptive archeology of Arlene’s reminders. I am grateful to be conquered by her signs of who came before.
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