Conversation Going Nowhere

As I knelt by your graveside, thoughts of your

coolness licked against my fiery skin. I traced

the S’s of your name, chased the moss from

the curves of earth’s granite. Your hand upon

my shoulder, slipped past—

a breath of displaced air, disguised

in a sigh.

I wanted to tell you that Gerry finally came home. Four paws

clicking and tail hung low. Thought you might

want to know. Deer ate the tulips again, a young doe

with twins. Tiny spotted things.

I wanted to ask where you put the instructions

for the furnace. It’s mighty cold this spring: the bees

might not hatch. And where’s the edging shovel,

the green handled one?

I wanted to know, if I‘d said sorry, would

you have left in such a fury? Would you have paused

long enough to scratch Gerry behind the ears? Long enough

to fasten the gate? And in that moment

robbed fate

of her early morning meal?

by Cathy Yard
Words In Motion 2014