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Six Months
The grass has grown tall as a tornado around us.
Deep beneath it, my memory of you is a shy brown rabbit,
Nestled in its close dirt burrow
Because it is spring,
You whisper ever more loudly in my ears –
And I laugh alone at our jokes as loudly
As the sound of one mouth kissing
I dream of the graveyard where you and I sat,
Feeling the rough tombstones slide between our naïve fingers
Or of when we walked under ladders,
Pretending to find shelter from the rain
Soon you will fade into a blurry smudge
Wearing a faded flannel shirt
But for now, my memory of you is spicy,
Sharp as cumin or paprika
You are a flannel fish swimming through my neurons,
More alive with every spark
The grass, coarse as gravestones,
Binds, gags, and suffocates us
Because now it is summer.
Now you are bones.