The officer’s fists on the door,
many fists on the door
hungry for a body, for blood,
in the name of justice. My father
tending to the garden, a gardener
gardening the language of others:
a criminal, a calloused thief, a weed
in his mouth between his teeth.
At the door, more fists insisting
Let me in! Let us in! His hands
loosening the earth after harvest,
making room for graves, for grass.
His hands touching the plum
then my hair then the earth
touching God’s. Many screams
bloodying the air, hardening it,
and a door broken into, breaking
down. A doored wind gone quiet,
the sound of your voice, a leaf now
quieted. It was a privilege foraging
alongside you, loving you. As they
take him, they leave me
fingering loose earth.