The little girl putting her doll to bed in the beloved pink
The grandmother seizing her hand at the inquest, breaking skin.
The husband bringing lilies to the room as a nurse wheels in their
The woman, the last day, asking at dusk, Is this dying?
You return to your mother's house, find keys, clean closets, call
Select music. Choose Bach: "Sheep Shall Safely Graze." Like
pacing a field to look for piled afterbirth.
The attorney writes back, "The pleadings, the correspondence, the
financial documents. Toss out the rest."
Behind the house in a tree, feathers aren't really blue on the
but black. Soon even with socks on your hands you're too cold to
walk any more outcrops.
A single blue heron flies low across cordgrass, one direction,
and then another.