Our daughter is one and a half.
You have been dead eleven days.
I got on the boat and came to the place where the three of us were going to build our house
if you had lived.
You died though
so I came here alone
with our baby and the dust of your bones.
I can’t remember.
Were you into canada geese?
Is it significant,
these hundreds on the beach?
Or were they just hungry for mid-migration seaweed?
What about foxgloves?
Is that a flower you liked?
I can’t remember.
You did most of my remembering for me
and now I stand untethered in a field full of wild foxgloves
wondering if you’re there
or if a flower means anything.
And what could anything mean in this crushing absurdity?
I brought a chair from home.
I’m leaving it on the hill
facing west and north
and I poured out your ashes on it.
I guess so you can watch the sunset
but the truth is I don’t think of that dust as you.
You are the sunset.


from A Crow Looked At Me, released March 24, 2017



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