All across the yard, false

peach. Elm trees spitting

shadow on their heads.

 

Like an ocean, he says,

thumbing the brim of his

cap, like lilies. The golden

 

in them. We’re far away

from ourselves, her ashes

dusted in a field, your voice

 

still scattering my dreams.

The pastor blesses vacuum-

packed communion on the

 

porch. Consider the lilies.

She planted them, he says,

too weak to stand for long

 

by then, him holding up

the pot through that last spring.

Life at the end of life, the

 

March light grey and rare.

Her soap-smell sticking in

the house. He sleeps at the

 

desk till I wake him. Will

this make me good. Does

the hunger fade. Will I grow

 

old in love like theirs. Her

jewellery heavy in my ears.

Dear future I can’t see the

 

ending. Dear future I can’t

find myself in you. Can I

say now I am these flowers,

 

floppy and proud, blooming

only for a day?