How you dispose
of the body, that’s as crucial
as how you choose
to do the deed. Didn’t they tell
you that before giving you the nod?
Nothing. It’s just odd.
Bare hands deep in dirt,
the baby’s father carves a garden
into the fertile hurt
of his child’s sunny laughter, given
like poems seeded as if come back.
No, nothing. It’s still black.
Holes dug for the fence
hit hard on something other than rock,
hadn’t been there since
cleaning up debris after last week’s attack.
He can’t so easily quit on his hates.
Oh, nothing. It’s nuts.