You pulled me up as I lay in the wet grass, gently grasped my hand, not hurting as when you lived. Where is your hair? I queried. Your pate is bald.
See those green tendrils? you said. Pluck them for me. I have lost all my own strands.

I harvested whole sheaves and placed each blade one by one across your taut skin. I wove a parting on your head now bowed to the wooden box.

You see, I told my mother. I can make you beautiful in my mind. Your cancered face is the moon in my night-sky.

She raised her grass-covered skull and took my hand. I laid her body down into the dark coffin, into the earth.