Lot 44

I dizzy past an old man digging, hear
dry grass crackle under my shoes, earth dying
for water. I stop in front of the marker
engraved with your name, our name, dates
I'm always forgetting. Other headstones
look alive, flower gardens frame them.

Maybe another time I'll use the skills
you taught me about planting and weeding,
things I have no use for in the city. For now,
I sit on the ground above your straightened
body, combing grass as fine as human
hair with my fingers, the wind barely breathing.