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.
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