My father would wash his hands in the dirt of the earth. Grainy, worm-ridden soil pushed between the cracks in his fingers.
“Don’t you get it? It’s much more pure than you or me.”
We’d plants gardens between small partitioned walls and pretend that,
That food was our sustenance:
cucumbers, acorn squash, potatoes.
My father, after digging and churning, would throw all the Very dead weeds and (often) rabbits Into black, plastic body/trash bags.
“There’s nothing greater than giving back to the earth”
His own death, included.
