what to say on a grave
a cheap pink plastic rose and I
board the train.
(he would have liked that)
I sit on the concrete behind his
bawling by the hibiscus,
ants crawling up my skirt.
‘good to see you’? ‘nice to see you again’?
even ‘see you soon’ sounds
wrong. I put a stone on that stupid flower.
hey, I say to that ridiculous patch of
between foggy clouds. I really like you,
I say with that phone voice people use
with others around, even though it’s
for the commuting crowd.
how to talk to a dead
without making it sound like
self-pity? missed connections?
thanks for your time, I say to the concrete.
fuck you, I say to the sky.
Laura Tavasse (she/her) was born in Vienna and spends her days fighting the printer, not practicing the piano, and waving at security cameras. Her poems can be found at Burning House Press, Moonchild Magazine, Bonnie’s Crew, Milk + Beans, Nightingale and Sparrow, Mookychick and Pulp Poets Press.