Heather A. Sullivan

I will dig in the dirt of your grave with my hands,
trowel forgotten in the trunk of our rental car,
plant the three roadside nursery petunias that
we will have picked out minutes earlier,
not knowing whether or not the groundskeeper
will mow them flush with the earth after our ritual.
With the pads of my fingers I will rub the
asparagus colored moss from your gravestone,
your sister’s,
your father’s,
your grandparent’s.
I will touch the unmarked spot of your mother,
promise her again that when the time is right,
I will buy her a stone that I can tend to every year,
mark with flowers and tears,
as I do yours.
Hoping that my words reach you on the
wings of the mosquitos that surround me,
the blood sacrifice given in payment for their
whispered weight.

Issue 1 : Fall, 2016