Two Weeks After Your Death
The columbines’ long, backward spurs swaying
I mistook as welcome, waves hello—
ignorant of the good-bye
equally evident. I look closer now,
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.