Visiting the Grave of Anne Sexton by April Michelle Bratten

The grass was like two hands around the family stone, two hands that rubbed together,
knitted like skins that knew where they belong,

and I do not remember the birds, but I am sure
there must have been at least four,

and they must have prayed as I did,
for your time, for your marrow,
for the driver's seat of a stale car,

but I know as well as you do that rapture is a
once-in-a-lifetime-thing,
a bleeding of worms,
a release of the daisies,
the silent sorrow of a mother in the driveway,

and you, a signature of the palm,
an energy from concrete,

you did exhale,

I heard it twice.






                                            April Michelle Bratten 2011

                                                             photograph by apryl skies