I Couldn’t Throw Dirt on Your Casket

The rabbi floated like a magician.
Your casket we chose, bronze colored.

It was closed, as was the custom.
And at the grave, everyone took turns

shoveling some dirt onto your casket,
like a token gesture. I could not do it.

For me, it was like throwing dirt at you.
It dignified nothing. I’d throw a line of life,

not death. Who could say you wouldn’t know it?
Who could prove that the dead do not create

a force, distinguished on the particles felt
between us?