His body rests in Wisconsin,
but not his hands or voice.
Only the dead bits are buried,
afterall. They dogged you cross-
country, west, and you still feel his breath
against the back of your neck,
still feel his fathergrip
around your arm, telling you:
Stop squirming. Lazy whispers
through construction clatter;
shoulders are always looked over;
some welts are never visible.
But your children will keen
to a different voice, remember
a different brace behind them
in family snapshots, for every nail driven
into your new deck hammers out
the drone.