Hole

One morning they dig up the sidewalk and leave
No sign of the truck
only the large dark shadow digging and digging
piling up sludge with a hand shovel
beside the only tree
Two o'clock I come by
and he's slumbering in the grass beside rat holes
Three and he's stretched across a jagged stone wall
folded hands tucked beneath one ear
a beautiful young boy smiling
not the heavy large shadow who can't breathe
Four-thirty and the August heat
takes one down here
He's pulled up an elbow joint
some three feet round
At seven I head home for the night
pass the fresh gravel mound
a soft footprint near the manhole
like the "x" abuelo would place beside his name
all the years he couldn't write

Naomi Ayala
Ploughshares
Martín Espada, Guest Editor
Volume 31, Number 1
Spring 2005

Copyright © 2005 by Emerson College.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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