You stayed until you left,
and you left later than anyone else at the funeral,
even the body.
The soul’s still out there, you know—
Not your business. Not here.
You get the bones,
and the grief, and the teacups
weeping into their saucers.
(All shuddering things, like worms.)
You get what’s left, what’s holy.
You plant flowers in the corpses
You wait for the revenant bloom.
Aimee Lowenstern is a twenty-one-year-old poet living in Nevada. She has cerebral palsy and is a big fan of glitter. Her work can be found in several journals, including Paragon Press and Synaesthesia Magazine.
Teacup illustration by C.B. Auder.
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