Love on a Shovel
Choose the right implement when burying dead love.
My poem for this month requires no introduction or paid subscription. I read it out recently to my local poetry group, whose regular meetings combine excellent guest poets with open-mic sessions for its members.
‘Love on a Shovel’
To bury dead love requires an appropriate implement. Being stubborn with a trowel just divides the bedding. Being cutting with a knife only slices home turf. Being picky with a pick-axe merely scratches the surface. To dig down to emotional depths plumbed by anger and misery. To ensure no unwanted return of your past trouble. Requires a shovel. So pick yours well. Scratch your nose, weigh your options, dig into your pocket. Then dig like a demon. Sweat for your cause. Sink your shovel deep, soil arcing high over your shoulder. A toiling mole in a love-lost hole. Repeat until your arms ache, your hands blister, and your eyes sting. As mounds of wasted years pile high, and walls of scratched earth enclose you, ignore temporary diminished horizons enveloping a dwindling rectangle of sky. Once rock-bottom is reached, peel each forgotten feeling from the heart which declared love for you, and you loved back as true. Press them into the uncovered, uncaring sod, using heels lumpen with stubborn clods. Don’t hurry. Make sure every single one is both dead and buried. Now ascend from your pit of despair, into fresher, worm-free air. Emerge dirty and tired, worn but reborn, freed from a half-life of pain. But best hang onto that shovel. You might need it again.
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