The Death of a Marriage

I will visit the grave
when the distance
between us becomes
reliable

In the spring perhaps
when the mound is plowed
of old griefs
prepped for a birthing
I will bring azaleas
hard pink and hearty

The headstone will be ordered
unveiled
and I will find
an epitaph

And I will come again
and again
to this place
because it is in me
to grant perpetual care
to all things
dead or living
And
this is home, is it not?
This graveyard
where each mound is marked
only after failure
have we not lain here together
blending with our limestone walls
losing
ourselves
to our jerry-built mausoleum
daddy (and mummy)
but this is no joke
has become rather
a prayer
a poultice