Here's the phenomenon--I'm just truckin' along, feeling pretty confident in my ability to compose a two-page paper, when I pause to re-read and realize I've unwittingly used the words "inspired" and "facets" about 5 times each. Ugh. Ugugugh.

digging

sometimes my shovel nudges old bone
brittle remnant, probably just
some unmourned chicken.
I dust it off,

sing a short hymn
for the long-departed, and keep digging.

we'll break through around noon,
I announce to Dad, who is planting inpatients
in the far corner of the garden,
he coughs in approval.

to keep my strength up,
I picture orchid gardens,
fresh chapattis, rainstorms.
things I know I'll find

I practice the clattering way
my grandfather slides sound
slick of his tongue
in the kitchen after dinner.
(I hardly hear words in it, to me
just a broken necklace of seed beads
bouncing off floorboards).

I've learned one line.
I try it out, tossing
tu kasa aahe?
across the garden.

but Dad's stubborn English
boomerangs back:
fine, thank you.

when I ask if should maybe
angle a little to the left, he grins,
but doesn't answer.
He walks over
snaps the brittle wishbone
with his mud-crusted thumbs,
explains again:

Los Angeles used to be ranchland.

I know all about where we are now.
that is not why I am digging.

Grace is the monarch,
bruised wings,
fallen and fluttering
in road among other leaves.


Grace when I see it
and swerve.

Grace as it wings back
behind my eyes in the evening:
struggling life, brave enough
to keep flapping.