The woman lay open on the table. 

Her simple life: a social worker, eggs 

everyday, survived by two 

cats, Dash and Dot

She arrived with a stab wound 

A tint of cherry, 

haunting her beige 

cardigan. The body closed 

in the casket

There was no eulogy; only blades of grass 

tickling the guests’ ankles as they dance 

and cry together in the rain

After the memorial 

I scratch through her name, 

I turn to the next body

Brian, 18, suicide. 

eyes shift to the boy

Hands folded as if in prayer

I think about my brother

Matthew, 16, same cause of death. 

No matter how many times 

I find myself wading 

in the storm of grief 

The perfume of petrichor

Still rises from the earth