Dead Things.

I do not know how to let things die; 
hand, a curved cup around limp  
leaves, wilted plant against fingers gently 
moulding moist soil into a bed for dis- 
integrating roots: 
here, is warmth, 
here, is comfort, 
here, is a shelter in the storm— 
do not mind my battered body, 
do not touch my bleeding fingers, 
rest easy in the shade of my grief 
(it will not touch you,  
even my tears do not touch my cheeks); 
You are a dead thing I have only recently 
learned to leave buried.  
You, a voice in the cool of the afternoon; 
You, the burning hand of a Guyana sun, 
sweat curling beneath breast under the 
weight of school uniform, 
shoulders pressed together beneath the 
open shadow of concrete corridors; 
Do I bury you, always, with the bitterness 
of my grief? 
Do I bury you, only, with the bitterness of 
this loss? 
I think only of you as you ought to be  
bat twisting on a dried field 
crack of ball against bat's breast 
I remember you only, as you were: 
IWhat were you? 
The iron band around my throat 
I hold in reminder that I should 
leave you rotting? 
The rush of happy breath held  
in the soft, and tender, curve of 
your hand holding mine? 
Garden-nurse, and Necromancer, 
let go your crafts. Ask only 
for ash, of the burial ground. 
Not sour, stained bones. 
Not rotting flesh. 
Not a skull to hold tears. 

K.N.O.W. April 1, 2019. Monday. 19.23 hrs. Day 1.

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