I mark the points

on flattened ground

draw the shape

of time, on each mark

I will dig.

the topsoil is heavy

threaded tendon-

roots snap against

the edge of the spade.

I dig through the footings

of our unbuilt house

the holes I watched fill

with rainwater,

like open mouths.

I reach rock

and give up, set down

my spade. I rest

until the sky

is reckless again.

The only way out

is down. So I dig.

I scrape

with caked nails and

dextrous fingers

I pluck stones and

shift the soil, I reach

the blackberry place, the foot

of the foot, slick tar-like

peat that fumes.

until I slosh

wet dirt to find

a clean pink finger.

I dig at its edges,

it has a hand. Neat,

folded fingers. Dirty nails

like lash-lined eyelids.

I uncover an arm,

a shoulder, neck and flank –

blueish nipples and tissue skin

crusted with soil, but not scarred,

fresh, I discover

it’s a girl.

I unearth her chin

her mouth I carefully clear

I push her brown hair back

her nose and tidy face

frozen, but gentle,

though sleeping, the way

a child is restored

at night. I’ll carry her now,

out, with the rest of me.