My days hang dipped white dresses in small histories –
memories caught in amber-solid summers,
black-stuck corpses with lies for legs. There,
her heart gathered deep
held in keep for a life with walls thicker than crying,
stronger than the agony of voices. Lost now
the sick nourishment
looking to the optimism of sunrises;
the dirty gene dreaming of medicine.
Death is more final than I thought:
its stone heavier than loss –
no elegiac emblem;
no mere sullen symbol.