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. 

 

 

 

 


Top of page