In search of my grandfather's fossils;
our ashes in an hourglass
and these bodies were only ferns

have i told you yet how
i learn my body into the
shape of a fern leaf?
i had been in search 
of my grandfather's fossils--
all we had wondered what
more was left of him other 
than his ashes
all sideways and poised
like an hourglass of sand--
he never struck me as a man
who would have accepted being 
returned to dust--
he remains a box of fruit snacks on top of 
the fridge-- 
a fist of amethyst
to grind to sugar
--a walking stick
in the back of the coat closet--
the one with the metal rubbed smooth
from holding his hand
like the wife who we all know 
only ever existed to become a metaphor--
we still see her in the snow
that falls the color of her shoes--
we learn to simmer 
his name over our nightlights--
meet his face 
in the dismantled body of a chicken coop--
our grandfather has a habit 
humming in the carcass of our
house-- only i can never hear
what he says and i ask my father
if i'm supposed to listen
but he responds by tipping
over another hourglass--
plays a bar chord on a hand
full of rusted guitar strings
and names another song after us--
i woke up my brother
and i from our bunks beds--
told him we were going to 
dig tonight-- deep enough
to find him as a photograph--
dug with tablespoons past amythest
in the backyard where there
used to be the red chicken coop-- 
he doesn't believe me
but i promise discovery--
i promise to tip an hourglass
of our our own ashes 
into a tablespoon-- we won't be
be a memory of ash--
we take solidarity 
in shovels 
and light a fire to keep us company
from behind the television screen
in the living room--
dug past stuffed animal eyes--
the yellow wandering string 
of an unwoven sweater--these
threads tied us back down
to the soil--
down into the cistern--
past a pile of white nurses shoes--
measure blood in green pennies
stacked to remind
us that we all fell from
the pockets of a cold statue
marooned on Ellis island--
we uncovered eight pocket
watches all humming a different
time-- thirteen hours
to fill the morning--
and by the time the sun came up
all we had discovered was 
fern fossils
like the ones my father
and i stole from a creek
when i was six--
cracked layer after layer
of these past bodies through
fingers of leaves--
is this why i remember the rain forest?
i ask my father-- who surveys
the holes we cut
into the yard the night before--
he throws his guitar strings
into the dirt for another
child to untangle--
we press our hands to 
the memory of the leaves--
our fingers to the sinews 
and we realize all our
veins fold into the
leaf bodies
like finger prints-- 
and my father flips over the hour glass
again-- reminds us to turn out
the fire in the screen of
the TV before 
we return the silhouettes 
of our own bodies back to the fern fossils--
i ask my father which fossil
is my grandfather
he lies and says
as many as you can hold in your hands
and as many as we can bury