Rocks on Stone

By Alison Stone

When did we start swimming lessons?

What was the gerbil’s name?

Above the graves, stale blue

October sky, your silence

punctuated by the chatter of birds.



Where should I seat

the drunk uncle? Rosemary

or cumin for the soup? Holidays

without you rough as rocks

left on your headstone, flecks

of mica sparkling with useless light.

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