~for D.

The summer after my daughters

die: each day a hot iron handled

bare-fingered, every second

something that singes.

I hear her calls, let them go

to voicemail. She brings food—

shows up one day, containers

of her meatballs in hand, purse

slumping to the ground

as she reaches to hug me.

For the first time

in weeks, I step outside.

The sun behind her

tangerines the lawn.

In the distance, spring

peepers harmonize

the light into darkness.

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