Shovel in hand, I dig and crumble the dirt,

disregarding the destruction
of my still-perfect nail job, periwinkly artificial
 
an act I do for my mother,
not Mary, whom the flowers halo like offerings,
but my real mother, the chest whose rise and fall
I know best
 
not that Mary, serene, unfurled,
isn’t draped head to toe in alluring grace,
or is it a suffocating extra layer of blue spray paint,
I simply wonder about her after
she gave everything
 
did she like to dance
and, if she did, did she reclaim her curves,
let them become more her own in their rhythm
 
as I did this morning
with too much skin and too much shimmy
to a song my mother hates?
 
If I knew the answer I think I would know
what it means to be a woman—
or is it a woman, after?

And really, is there
a difference?