dear one
if you should come for her when i’m not there, be kind,
look her in the eye and smile as you smooth back her hair,
rest your palm on one hollowed-out cheek, then the other,
tell her she’ll see otis again, and he’ll be spry instead of sick,
that joe will be there, too, baking up bread and macaroons,
that the shy baby goldfish will poke his head out from the
plants in the pond and nibble food from her fingertips as
before, that the garden will thrum with flowers humming
—impatiens, begonias, marigolds, geraniums, petunias—all
jostling for her attention, while the morning glories climb
the back door frame like kids on a jungle gym who don’t
want to go home yet. tell her i know: we are just stumbling
through, injured and injuring, making a holy mess of things,
and it’s unspeakably fine anyhow, isn’t it, all of this?
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