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-
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
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:
What 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. NaPoWriMo Day 1.