I look into the box
Her fabric folds of flowers are blue,
mine are pink and periwinkle, I’m wearing lace socks.
Mother stands behind me.
She is the only person-shape I understand

I stand in the doorway
A hand on my shoulder
Lying in bed, she beckons me
She’s not wearing her wig today.
Gently pushes a teddy bear into my hands.
From the Queen Elizabeth II.
Later, person-shapes
I don’t understand yet
but I see her sift out the chimney

Scattering her to the sea lapping my feet
My mother, her sisters watch the sun sink
drink caipirinhas

My first glass of champagne

A neighbor finds her at the bottom of the stairs
They do an autopsy
—painkillers—
Gracie’s eyes are dead too.
We bring flowers, despite allergies
because it’s convention.
First time I am also a person-shape.

A repeat.
She lies there, no wig.
A few hairs on the plush pillow.
Another box.
More flowers.
This time I lose shape altogether.

This one’s farther away
more peaceful
I don’t know him very well
I hover outside their grief this time.

A teacher.  My teacher.
Healthy.
Sometimes it surprises you:
he doesn’t look real—
only person-shaped.

But then, they never do.