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The Peace Lilies I bought
for his funeral
look the same
six years later;
their green mirrors
the shade that consoled
a room
of trembling hearts.
In the beginning, there was
a husband.
He got sick.
He died.
Doesn’t everyone have grief
like this?
Doesn’t everyone have pain
spurred
on their bones?
Aren’t we all crumpled bags
in the wind?
His son might be over it now.
(Does singing in shower mean
he’s over it?)
Should my heart still feel
this dry—
a hill of frozen dust?
When does ice melt
into a stream?
Where is
that point?
