Two Weeks After Your Death


The columbines’ long, backward spurs swaying

I mistook as welcome, waves hello—

nothing else—


ignorant of the good-bye

equally evident.  I look closer now,

at everything:


a bee bobbing from cup to cup, a flower’s calyx—

early September and already stripped

of sepals—dark mauve,


a shade of rot.  I keep remembering

the bright day we picnicked naked, each flower

a small, petaled mirror reflecting the sun. 


I lie down, cuffed

to this grief, flat against the cold

slab of earth. 





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