Grief is Simple Interference: Endings Overlapping
I feed the ants before I poison them. I wrap my grief in tinsel and call the funeral director Sugarbeets. I want to spoon her in two. One for now, one for never. Does it matter who D-I-E-D? After the service, there’s sex and crackers and crushed fruit. Her father snapped black and whites of all the lilies in the room. Graveside, we shoe-gazed and eavesdropped—Palm-sized birds and the threat of afternoon rain. Touch me now, she said, I’ll freckle and tear.