Who Will Dig Your Grave
written by: Don Edwards
Who will dig your grave, grave digger, now that your hands are stilled?
Who will bury you right — deep with square corners and plumbed headstone?
Who will mold the dark vault tight to guard your frozen bones, protect the soon collapsed flesh?
I remember you, the life leaping from your mottled arms as you lugged me through the budding day, while deriding my imperfect task — “Here’s how” and then with a twist complete.
I saw you invade the bright clumps of Oxford and Satin, a flannel-chested bully on a straight course to another’s wife with fuzzy-topped legs, and watched the others recede — fingers spiraled, and right hand clamped, leading all eyes, hers the transfixed gaze of the honeybun, ravished and done, an ephemeral snack.
I watched you, the dexterous slugger, test the others and sniff the borders of each ring: I heard the gloved skin pop like celebration while beatific fans too near received the spray on white cotton shirts as the assault sped to the payoff acknowledged by a common sigh.
It was always the lake gray eyes that relaxed them, off with the shoes went decorum, and the adventure began.
I will not forget your threat on Christmas Eve to end my day with a swift jab, and do not remember what festive foolery or vow I made to block the attack.
I imagine these miles away, the tight fists loosen, wilting fingers spread as will admits completion.
I heard that your final act was to call my name as before, but I have long since gone, not having withstood or understood the point.
Who now remains with the quick hands, the heavy mouth to bring triumph to life’s fevered campaign?
- Who Will Dig Your Grave - July 20, 2026
