i mourn the joy you gave away,
though you would never think to.

you belong to the ground you stand on.
it never occurs
that your shedded ghosts
could stand somewhere brighter.

you are the saint of gritty teeth.
martyred over meatloaf,
thought it merely dinner.

you polished our crowns of thorns
while we howled like haughty lions.

and in the face of
nuclear
commercial breaks

you kept to your gardens,
crossed picketlines of suffering,
made happy horrors grow.