Mahogany.

I watched them over and over again,
the polished grooves
of coffin-shaped mahogany sinking

into the brown dirt and darkness

of a rectangle: 5 foot long,
3 foot wide
and as deep as the shovel in my fathers heart. 

I thought I, too, would be swallowed up by it,
that unmarked cranny in a field
of marble stones and wilted flowers.
I longed for it,
with my fingers and eyelids crumpled,

willing my chestnut limbs to unroot themselves
and dive, heartfirst,
into your oblivion.