As I knelt by your graveside, thoughts of your
coolness licked against my fiery skin. I traced
the S’s of your name, chased the moss from
the curves of earth’s granite. Your hand upon
my shoulder, slipped past—
a breath of displaced air, disguised
in a sigh.
I wanted to tell you that Gerry finally came home. Four paws
clicking and tail hung low. Thought you might
want to know. Deer ate the tulips again, a young doe
with twins. Tiny spotted things.
I wanted to ask where you put the instructions
for the furnace. It’s mighty cold this spring: the bees
might not hatch. And where’s the edging shovel,
the green handled one?
I wanted to know, if I‘d said sorry, would
you have left in such a fury? Would you have paused
long enough to scratch Gerry behind the ears? Long enough
to fasten the gate? And in that moment
robbed fate
of her early morning meal?
Cathy Yard
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