___________________________________________________________________________________
April 8, 9, 10: Dear Steve
The crows you heard as omens were omens.
Frost smashed your cucumber seedlings.
Watch the pot. It will boil.
Your burial day: sunny, then cold dusky dark.
The piper marched in late. We waited
shivering in wind-borne April snow.
The drive home: pink trees waggled
like slutty dresses. A girl walked by in jeans
with strings for her thighs to bulge through.
At home: our dog knew your ashes
had sat on my lap. She sniffed, then moved
to your side of the couch to mourn.
Note: At the grave, a strange woman
had hung around to be alone with you.
You'd laugh at how pissed off I was.
You told me in Ireland "pissed"
means "drunk." My darling, I am so pissed.
Waiting for the day and days to end.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Clarinda Harriss, professor emerita of English at Towson University and longtime publisher of BrickHouse Books, Inc., is the author, most recently, of The White Rail, Innumerable Moons, and Ash Wedding.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Cemetery in Ballyvaughan, Co. Clare. Ireland, 2018. Photo by T. Winch