Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...

erbacce-press

Peter Res

Yard Work

Barbara died in her under-worlds
and holy shirt, braless as a Buddha
caught off-guard. Flash-frozen
in your garden, cursing her flowers
for their planting, the watering gone
undone.

Simple weathering
lilacs on granite countertops
close their eyes. Hide
in swift clippings of buds
like the bulb you stole
from your sister’s bathroom
to illuminate only your corners.

“At the funeral for the dog,
you’ll have a real casket” or one fashioned
out of her hair. Bury her fragrance
in soft mulch and impatiens
whatever absence lingers to know:

The garden is kept concentric and clean
nothing else matters.

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