They buried you, without us. My memory contains the top of your head, a lifesaver I spat into the middle, my legs wrapped around
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
After Plath The key to the tower is an illusion. There is a dignity to this; a formality— the irises could be doing any