This grave we call “Earth” by Gillian Lionberger

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This grave we call “Earth”

I rode with my grandmother to visit 

the cemetery one early summer Tuesday.

The serenity of the apricot morning steeped into the dirt 

with each unknown story I read 

as we walked to my grandaddy’s grave. While I scrubbed away 

the grime revealing a lovingly worn stone tickled by thick grass, I thought, 

“Affection is saved for the living; caring is for the dead.” 

We checked on the chrysanthemums potted for our dogs, 

and she nonchalantly said, “that’s where your plot of land is”. 

I’ve known this since my parents bought the land 

the orange morning I was born because it would become expensive later. 

The sky was a different shade today, not vivid and concrete

with anticipation but dropped soft swinging rays.

I wanted to speak the language of the Earth, evacuate my lungs into 

the wind and sit still. 

I sat with the soil that would hold me, spoke with it, 

we reached an understanding. 

 

© Gillian Lionberger

Gillian Lionberger

Gillian Lionberger studies in the heart of her Appalachian culture at Hollins University’s MFA program. Her inspiration for little objects that lovely-clutter hearts, tapping into the concreteness of languages, and coffee spreads across both prose, poetry, and non-fiction. She also enjoys fencing, Persona games, and playing with her two dogs. 

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