Twilight

Green

My lover is as silent as the drizzle

that slides down the windshield.
I pretzel my legs and press my tongue

to the back of my teeth, hard.
His breath is thunderous, mocking.
In, out, in, out, in, nose whistling.

I punch his shoulder and leap out

strutting to the headstone
sunk into the grass among the upright plaques
he has locked the car and is picking dandelions
which grow between the cement and the gravel
disgusting bright dyes which

must be plucked every summer
only to return multiplied the next

I stomp atop the soil

and wave my arms ridiculously,
daring him to meet my eyes.
There’s nothing sacred in this earth.
His horrified stare satisfies me
until he steps forward.

the weeds flop about in his too-slow hands

and he rests them on her grave
the trees rustle and echo the

Bible verse read twice
the trees shall clap their hands

I spin and wander through

the questions in his eyes.
Through the Johnsons, Smiths, and Raymonts,
sneaking glances at his bowed head,

his careful touch smoothing the earth

and sweeping away the crinkled leaves.
How absurd; he mutters.
Speaking to rotting flesh encased in cedar

covered by green
as if she was ever there at all,

this woman he never met.

a wasp flutters by and I shout daring it to sting
but it is gone and he mutters as the trees rustle
and the grass blinds and as I collapse

under imagined pain
we drive away dry-eyed and joking
and I wonder if I ever screamed at all