the exhumation
June Henry
A slice of proof
A portion of a small something
I can bury in the earth with myself
Until it grows
'Til it blooms
Until it is a fossil
Unobserved
Untouched
Your gentle hands return from the exhumation
You uncover without breaking me open
It is delicate work
Deep tedious
Deep tiresome
Deep thriftless
You observe
You touch
I am more than the debris
That you brush
From the surface