On His Grave

Not rosemary or anemone, notcyclamen though it is meant for goodbye,none of these. Instead I will makea daughter’s wreath: elm switches,persimmon, pine sweeps, and rods of lilac.

I will assign private meaningand set its blooms atop the mound,wrapped round with snarls of my hair:elm switches for submission and for pain,green persimmon that seals the tonguewith bitterness, scepters of lilacfor their sun-thickened, corpse-heavy scent,perfume that almost suffocates, and, finally,to stiffen the arrangement into a fan,or spreading palms: brushes of white pinelike the pines that shade the red sandswhere they lay him down, pines to whisperand hush: it’s too late, too late now, shhh.

At last, diligent and dutiful, I will use my hairto tie the raft of stems. I’ll wind the broken kinksof graying, wiry and thorned. I’ll twisttheir strands tight around his wreath, my hairbecause they say that hair grows even after death.But what they say is false: hair is already dead,already the perfect cane for my father’s wreath.