Archaeology
Kayla Cash


Thin and getting thinner, my father roots
in the garden next to corn stalks
ready for wither and till. His blood runs
cold and clotted between the tomatoes and cukes –
inebriated, bones fragile
with Maker’s Mark – he’s forever
picking unripe things,
 
left with not enough, the deck steps
now overflowing. He hooks
his fingers on pole beans, goddammit
it’s time, asks me to find him
 
a pack and lighter, gets to work.
With cigarette drooping and eyes bloodshot,
a rash creeps up his forearms – over him,
 
onto me. He says he wants to be buried here, not
scattered – I’ll pour some pilsners for his sustenance,
warm his bones for winter. One day
 
I’ll find his teeth
on the cob, and shuck tirelessly
for the rest – this is my skeleton
to unearth.
 

About the Author: Kayla Cash is currently an MFA poetry candidate at the University of New Hampshire, where she hosts the monthly reading series, Read Free or Die, and reads for the online literary journal, Barnstorm. Kayla's work can be found in BOAAT, Hollow, and By&By.

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