Poetry in April: Ross Gay

It's Thursday again, and that means it's time for another installment of poetry! This week we are all sharing poems by Ross Gay. I've chosen to share the one I haven't stopped thinking about since I read it two weeks ago. It's a long one, but I hope you'll read it all and enjoy it as much as I did.

burial

You're right, you're right,
the fertilizer's good--
it wasn't a gang of dullards
came up with chucking
a fish in the planting hole
or some midwife got lucky
with the placenta--
oh, I'll plant a tree here!--

and a sudden flush of quince

and jam enough for months--yes,

the magic dust our bodies become

casts spells on the roots

about which someone else

could tell you the chemical processes,

but it's just magic to me,

which is why a couple springs ago

when first putting in my two bare root plum trees

out back I took the jar which has become

my father's house,

and lonely for him and hoping to coax him back

for my mother as much as me,

poured some of him in the planting holes

and he dove in glad for the robust air,

saddling a slight gust

into my nose and mouth,

chuckling as I coughed,

but mostly he disappeared

into the minor yawns in the earth

into which I placed the trees,

splaying wide their roots,

casting the gray dust of my old man

evenly throughout the hole,

replacing then the clods

of dense Indiana soil until the roots

and my father were buried,

watering it in all with one hand

while holding the tree

with the other straight as the flag

to the nation of simple joy

of which my father is now a naturalized citizen,

waving the flag

from his subterranean lair,

the roots curled around him

like shawls or jungle gyms, like

hookahs or the arms of ancestors,

before breast-stroking into the xylem,

riding the elevator up

through the cambium and into the leaves where,

when you put your ear close enough,

you can hear him whisper

good morning, where, if you close your eyes

and push your face you can feel

his stubbly jowls and good lord

this year he was giddy at the first

real fruit set and nestled into the 30 or 40 plums

in the two trees, peering out from the sweet meat

with his hands pressed against the purple skin

like cathedral glass,

and imagine his joy as the sun

wizarded forth those abundant sugars

and I plodded barefoot

and prayerful at the first ripe plum's swell and blush,

almost weepy conjuring

some surely ponderous verse

to convey this bottomless grace,

you know, oh father oh father kind of stuff,

hundreds of hot air balloons

filling the sky in my chest, replacing his intubated body

listing like a boat keel side up, replacing

the steady stream of water from the one eye

which his brother wiped before removing the tube,

keeping his hand on the forehead

until the last wind in his body wandered off,

while my brother wailed like an animal,

and my mother said, weeping,

it's ok, it's ok, you can go honey,

at all of which my father

guffawed by kicking from the first bite

buckets of juice down my chin,

staining one of my two button-down shirts,

the salmon-colored silk one, hollering

there's more of that!

almost dancing now in the plum,

in the tree, the way he did as a person,

bent over and biting his lip

and chucking the one hip out

then the other with his elbows cocked

and fists loosely made

and eyes closed and mouth made trumpet

when he knew he could make you happy

just by being a little silly

and sweet.

"burial" from catalog of unabashed gratitude, University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015

You can learn more about Ross Gay here. Be sure to visit Kat, Kym, and Bonny to read their selections!