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Poem	Fold this, our daughter’s grave, and seal it with your kiss. For all the love I gave, you owe me this. Inside of me, she had your lips and tongue, my air of grimness, thin and sad, with your thick hair. Inside of you, I trust, she was a simple mesh of need and paper, lust – potential flesh. And there was such pure song in life begun from you, I held the dead too long, as women do, but leaving like you did, when only I could feel the biding, body, bid of what was real, she’s put out with the cur, the garbage, heartache, cat. Promise you’ll sing to her. You owe me that.
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