I doled out to friends his leather coat, his ties,
hundreds of musical scores to a grateful student.
I bubble wrapped the last three decades of my life.
Dead, Dead, Dead, I catalogued the departed
and duct taped each box bound for my new home.

II.

At first sign of spring I clenched my shovel
and dug up the landlord’s lawn.  Crazed widow
in the garden at dusk, I tilled arid, suburban clay,
chucked in manure, released a bin of Red Wigglers,
and flung ladybugs to the Full Pink Moon.

I planted Beauty Heirlooms and Black Brandywines,
Habaneros, cilantro, onions and leeks.

There would be salsa and tequila to toast my father,
ratatouille and a crisp Chianti for Jeff.
There would be summer’s bounty and fall’s effulgence,
the itchy red mounds of mosquito bites would heal,
my calloused hands would again be smooth
if only I could hold them steady on my lap.

III.

Unable to sit still or sleep, unable yet to write
the word death, I baked pies instead:
cut cold shortening into flour, drizzled in ice water,
rolled out each round on a marble slab,
tucked and crimped and braided.

Pecan, pumpkin, apple and peach,
pear galettes, fig tarts, persimmon with lattice crust.

Neighbors and coworkers grew stout.
By March they closed their curtains as I approached.
Who now to sit at my table, as I peeled and sliced?
Who to kiss the flour from my nose?

IV.

A good man stands at my door, proffering roses.
Between us, so many dead- parents, husband, brother, wife.

A shorthand between us, this hieroglyph of grief.
We decorate two trees at Christmas-
his children swag the popcorn she once strung,
yellow now with age. We make love each Friday,
the ghosts of our mates hovering.

I invite him in, thrust the roses into water.
They are thirsty it seems.