Death isn't self-gratification
in allowing flowers to take
the place where
love was missing

Tried on death for size
a number of times
it laced itself around my frame
in coarse fabric

I wonder if
it is for my mom
who died June two-thousand fourteen
or my dad who was the only
one allowed to form
their own opinion

and their supposed love in
December nineteen-ninety four
when sorrow fell on the ground in
correspondence to winter's call

Or my sister's who were born before
I
in the month of blooming flowers
and decaying weeds

as all things
come in
and
out
of
season