In Both Hands, Courage: (A portrait of Jean Anouilh’s Antigone)

I went down    and loved the dead.        I cried for the dead: a crowing, a cawing,the extended caress of shrill impossible loss. In my hands, —dirt. I owned each tiny shovelful.     My kingdom, my nest of dirt. I dug        a new uncluttered space. This was a lonely burial. I was not afraid of the night, not afraid of containing his body.    What is in me was for him.        Dirt was the square root of tomorrow, which I knew I’d never see. My voice tore at the stars.Stars whispered back a compacted prayer as I dug.     I opened the house of the dead        with my soft hands because it was my power.I lay at the center of the house with the substance of my dead brother beneath me. I touched the night,    each scoop of it,        and wept in counterpoint to the dawn,a commotion that scissored through each shadow. If anyone watched me, I did not notice,    but I heard mongrel dogs by the fence,         their mouths spilling black judgment. My eyes adjusted to each new sketch of the restless heavens. Why is the blood of the sky so beautiful?    The small, imperfect grave filled my hours, the minutes.        I knew I would be punished for the dirt under my nails, for my screechesand the crown of grief, but I dug,     and dug again. I clawed at the earth,        the frost-edged crust.What satisfaction to harrow and cover. —I felt sated. I cried out    the ruined breath of my father,        and the scattered body of my brother. I surrendered to the ground twiceand returned again. I surrendered again,    wanting nothing but to stay on the shore of my grief,        claiming the price of this unholy noise. I disfigured myself with surrender. Day was carnivorous, approaching.    My life will be summarized quickly.         It has been exactly enough.