I wish I could say
I lay your body under the honeysuckle
the day you crossed over, let vine and wisp
hang nectar all around you.
Then, you stop weeping. Lift your face from your hands.
He came back grinning, gripping
a bag of homegrown Beefsteaks so fat
they were already bursting their juices
through the brown paper
Vanessa Redgrave thought whatever
separates life and death
is tiny as the sliver of a fingernail.
His cat mourned better than I, lying
on her side for weeks across his room’s threshold
Some evenings, he would hide his face in his hands
for a few seconds —
I’m the last sister standing — but tonight I mean to lie down, to practice being in the box
What I’m learning about grief is that
it comes and goes, like the shadow in front of me
on the afternoon sidewalk.
as if death had lit a pale light
in your flesh, your flesh
was cold to my touch, or not cold
but cool, cooling