seal the record 

with the big metal shovel
that dad keeps in the back of the jeep:
the shovel he uses for mulch & stone.
with a handful of sand. with a pot & pan--
take the lid from the shelf my the kitchen
cabinet. they named me after my grandmother.
with the wooden spoon & the vegetable oil.
pour me down your throats with the good china.
i'm crouching patient in the tea cups.
i'm on all fours, sliding into the mailbox.
i dug her up from calvary cemetery 
for this--shook her in her box. 
she blinked & was startled. i brushed
the dirt from her face. she made me 
wash beneath my fingernails like all
grandmothers do. hot sink water. no one
was home & the screen door banged like a shotgun.
i told her i was changing her name (my name)
& she said we should get a bible & 
erase it from every page of the old testament.
she peeled the name off like shelling
peas-- tossing the husks onto the living
room carpet. a few she put into her
pocket "for good times sake"--
what will we call the wife of abraham? 
i ask & she doesn't look up from 
the book. in front of the judge i'll
tell him that my grandmother says it's okay.
that she doesn't mind having a grandson
instead of wife of abraham. 
seal the record with the envelops &
the gravel driveway. with the broken scissors 
& the plastic tablespoons. she picks up
the names in her dress & pours them
into the coffin with her. she says she'll
take good care of them-- lays them out
like a blanket for her to nestle back down
into. i apologize for waking her up & she
puts a finger to my lips. always
always always. again i use the shovel 
to place eight feet of soil between us.
mud on my hands i climb into the kitchen
sink & pour the water over my head. 
i sit in the spaghetti strainer.
i pick myself up by the handle &
walk home. with a locked front
door. with a shovel. with a shovel 
with a shovel.