That rose, so pendulant and yellow, she glimpsed outside the kitchen window wasn’t from the slip her mother sent her with across the ocean,
The grave is dug but not yet filled. We do not bury during Holy week so days pile up like unsaid Masses and we
When you spotted the deep pucker lines around the young woman’s lips, you whispered in my ear, Smoker, as if you would never die.
Dear Angel of Death and your silent orchestra, my brother got here first. We disturb him, put on masks. I’m not sure why,