by Gail Newman

A woman sleeping in the burned-grass patch of lawn
in front of my parents’ house, beside the Bird of Paradise’s
beaked flames, a flicker of dream-sleep under shut-lid eyes.
Beside her body the wire cage of a shopping cart,
rubbish piled high like graveyard dirt,

the earth we lifted, each of us, then passed
the shovel to the next in line, to fill my father’s grave,
in front of which, because she was old
and could not easily stand, my mother sat,
shading her eyes with dark glasses.

It was a good turnout, they later observed, as they knifed
cream cheese onto onion bagels. My mother sat,
in the tradition of the tribe, on a low cushion
to bring her close to the earth under which he now lay,
in a suit of her choosing, his best tie knotted at the neck.

Let her sleep there, he had said.
She’s not hurting anyone.
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Gail Newman's poems have most recently appeared in Canary, Prairie Schooner, Mom Egg Review, Calyx, Hiram Poetry Review, Spillway, Prism, Second Wind, The Doll Collection, America, We Call Your Name, and Nimrod International Journal. Her poem, "Mishpacha," was awarded Bellingham Review's 49th Parallel Poetry Prize. A collection of poetry, One World, was published by Moon Tide Press. A new collection, Blood Memory, chosen by Marge Piercy for publication by Marsh Hawk Press, was published in 2020. Gail has worked as San Francisco Coordinator for CalPoets and as a museum educator at the San Francisco Contemporary Jewish Museum. She was co-founder and editor of Room, A Women’s Literary Journal.