Graveside Ledger

Small barbs under the skin volunteer;
they rise, then settle, like wire remembering a bend.
I let them wrap the drum in my chest,
counting off in dull taps I can’t unhear.

A tape unspools. Someone marks a square.
Chalk stutters on clay, white grit under thumbnail.
The clipboard lists my names, some crossed, some smudged;
wind flips the page, the clip bites down.

I stand the way a guard might—out of habit—
boots sifting gravel, breath a thin frost.
The shovel tests the ground, tongue on a tooth,
and finds a stone; the ring of it travels.

Come then, light-handed one.
Your touch is winter and workday both.
Set your palm between my shoulders.
I’ll lean the way a dancer leans—into the count.

Remember or don’t; the ledger will close.
The spade stays upright a moment, listening.
Then one neat scoop, one hush of soil,
and the surface goes smooth as if nothing had lifted.