William Ross is a Canadian writer and visual artist living in Toronto. His poems have appeared in Rattle, The New Quarterly, Humana Obscura, New Note Poetry, Cathexis Northwest Press, Topical Poetry, Heavy Feather Review,*82 Review, and Alluvium. Recent work is forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic and Bindweed Magazine.
The Shovel
I was holding a shovel, a useful
tool for doing two things at one time.
The long handle is for carrying
and for pushing the blade into dirt,
scooping a cup of earth and placing
it nearby, making two things—
a hill and a hole.
The moon appeared and all
the oceans wanted to be near her.
We were saying goodbye. You touched
my face and said, I want to see
where you sleep. A small scoop of me
was lifted and placed by your feet,
making a tiny moonlit mountain.
When we are earth,
I will sing for you.
You will know the sound—
a throat-singing drone, like
the thwack and buzz of the double bass
rumbling through the underworld.
Some will mistake it for prayer
but you will know when you hear it
that I sing for you.
Clouds will drop their bombs
on our heads and all around us
a frenzy of surging mycelia,
messages back and forth across
the network and you will know,
if you pick up your messages, that
I called for you.
Clouds of mist rising from the grass
where our ashes are thrown
will form and un-form
images of you walking the earth,
dissolving like a lost memory,
but I will remember and
gathering the crickets and cicadas
for backup, we will breathe deep
the green world and sing for you.