I lost your memory in the grass.
It fell through the hole in my chest,
landed someplace between the emerald blades
that once glimmered softly in the sun
next to your headstone,
impossibly tall. I feel
with fingers blind as mice, but cannot
find the smallest shred of what I lost:
the sky is a crystalline blue,
clear as a baby's eye.
Whoever made this day so beautiful
should burn in hell, I think, imagining my hands
digging into your fresh plot, turning over dirt
and worms; hoping, I guess, to find some part of you
still there, still alive.