Every Secret is a Little Casket
When we got to my father’s grave, my mother
apologized. Anthills puckered at the seams
of the grave. Crabgrass hemmed in the nameplate.
It was a flat grave, not high but deep. Another
beside it with her name and single date seemed
to wait, undisturbed. Seemed to wait.
Tending was what she thought she hadn’t done:
tiny minutes unstitched . . .
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