If it had been you- six feet under,
in the forgotten blended dirt next to the moratorium,
so stiff, at the base it crumbles.

If it had been you, I would have staked ground;
waited until time stopped or you resurrected.
I'd blow cotton off weeds, my wishes striking trees
unanswered except by hard bark, waiting for the wind to set free.

Dirt buffers this world from the next,
weeds plant branches, hidden from sunlight.
Once brought to the surface wind twirls like wet dreams
carved against time.

But it was me. The street next to the cemetery runs empty.
Your light was green, go, go, go.

Every year I feel your shadow's weight,
your light creeps slowly.
You kneel. There is a job at hand.
Dig me out love, clean me up.
Strong, new hands clench dirt.
A clean, gold band covers your ring finger

I sigh, the trees concur.

Plant your feet, stay a spell.
Massage my roots, replant soil over moss,
marry soil to sod.

Reach down, pluck the wide, fuzzy weed,
it's been itching all year. Scrape it clean.
Drink my love, drink.

In the soil you curve hands, etch a heart,
inside it, we live forever. RB + KS.
Only the sky sees the lie as gold is replaced by black.

How I long to be the other half of the equation again.

This poem appeared in The Hiss Quarterly's Perilous Journeys Issue - April, 2005