They buried you, without us. My memory contains the top
of your head, a lifesaver I spat into the middle, my legs
wrapped around your shoulders. You had no harsh words
for me, no complaints about the stickiness,
the slight green tinge your skin had taken on.
You taught us how to fish. You were dying … Continue Reading ››
We took turns tossing your ashes with a cup—
purple violets, a spring flower, hardy, despite
seeming frail—though I reached in to touch your ash.
Our bodies were cool in the May breeze, swallows
swept insects before them, cars trundled across
the bridge upriver from where we stood on sand.
After we let your ashes go, a few of us … Continue Reading ››
The key to the tower is an illusion.
There is a dignity to this; a formality—
the irises could be doing any number of things:
bowing, sleeping, kneeling for prayer, or execution.
They look up like children, quick and expectant.