FOR FLORENCE

The cold bit off my fingers the day I buried you.
Jackhammer opened the earth.
Slabs of dirt to welcome you.
Not sun or birds or green pillow to kneel on.

This is when I turned solid,
fire hose in winter.
Nylon stockings covered my feet.
Your warm glow given at birth –
now a thin muslin shroud, no blanket.

A dull ache of clouds shivered with damp.
My head bowed to cut the wind.
Priest’s vestments blew black in snow.
I can’t leave you in the cold.

Grief still has me on my back,
boot at my throat.
I take in the plants at night so they don’t die.
I can’t remember your hands.