TWO GHOSTS
Standing on soft grass
this earth-scented afternoon,
my hand sprouts violets
where fingers used to be.
I toss them into his grave.
When I try to speak
to the assemblage of crows,
my lips fly away
on a cardinal's wings
and perch on the limb
of a plum tree.
The sun shifts slightly,
and I step into a puddle
of light. My feet,
weightless and numb,
begin to melt.
While walking back
toward the cemetery gates,
the ivory in my bones
dissolves to sand.
Cell by cell,
my body evaporates.
Patty Dickson Pieczka
