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
blurs iridescent after meds— the sun’s dry-light sleeking drab. The pain-body sings musty as a moth-wing-tongue, calls you into the room with coffee and