Michelangelo says he regretted not doing more
for his soul during his life. My son dug out
last year’s hibiscus root, opening a hole into another
time, humming what sounded like opera house 
or hooves on glass or grooves. Whatever 
it was makes a good story because the past is past 
& slowly a hunter approaches to stun us
as we lay under the river birches. Fifty-four
of our body’s 206 bones burrow in our hands 
— in the artist’s hands, as he carved 
La Pietà, the lacerated body of the Son
in his mother’s lap, as my son works busily 
through the dirt, inhaling freshly cut grass,
fallen angels lighting the stove to catch 
my nightclothes on fire. I stopped drinking
to save my soul is what I tell people who
get this sort of thing, the mud between my toes
bringing back my tumble from a car. 
Michelangelo gave us compassion and no
greater love. Splayed under the stars, someone
could have fed my corpse to the birds 
of heaven.