You die in the cemetery and haunt 
a field of ancestors for years 
before I come to retrieve you. 
I feed grass to your slack mouth, 
coat your arms and legs in ancient mud, 
and pray over your remains before scattering 
them in the Snake River. 

Everywhere I turn, I catch you migrating. 
Kneecap soaring on the back of a crow 
overhead a deserted road in New Mexico. 
Both shoulder blades stalking prey with grizzlies 
near Slough Creek. Sternum trampling across 
prairies in Oklahoma with a herd of antelope. 
A cheekbone perched on wild boars slaughtering 
swollen fruit in the southern Mountain ranges.

When you finish your journey, you wander 
back to your old farm. The chickens kiss 
bits of your fingers. The cows watch 
over your soul like old guard dogs. 
Your granddaughter greets you 
each morning as she steps 
into your garden.