It was hard for us, the way you diedevery day, slowly and then all at once,just as such things are said to happen.Spring came, so soon it almost seemedyou could’ve waited, but I know, I know,you couldn’t wait. My head was full of namesof flowers, and I kept picking stonesout of the earth as if making roomfor you—organic matter, ions and atoms,the clock of your body still ticking somewhere,but backwards. I have given up, you’d said.If I sometimes felt it could be all rightthat things went this way, it was becauseI knew the end was not the meaningof your life; it was something else instead—a series of small explosions, brief flame,color and light, the breeze lifting the hairfrom your cheek. It was those momentswhen you took your picture in the mirrorand the camera widened and narrowed itsone eye sleepily, like a cat loving you.All those close-ups of flowers. There wasthe dying back, right down to the ground,and the months and years where nothing grew,but some summers they opened and openedand opened; like the slash of …
