never be sorry
for who you are you
told me
so
I drove to your grave
for the second time
on your birth-
day a half year
after.
I traced the margin
of unmarked rows
remembering the elm you-
‘re buried beneath
from that uncanny summer before
moving between the headstones
treading lightly the edges
of upturned faces below
clocking the breeze
stroking the canopy
that keeps the secret
of you in this mountain garden
where a groundskeeper left his work
to ask if I was
looking for someone
I said yes
we spelled out
your name on a slip of paper
from his shirt pocket
before he went away to check
the books or ask God
or Google how to find you
here
I hurried to do
the same
though there was little bandwidth
at elevation;
poor connection after
poor connection until
the page opened on
a photo of your plastic headstone
I waved the keeper off
pointed down
to you
trying to smile
just a little
from a distance
before he waved back and maybe
smiled too I think
and turned again to his rows of flowers
as I sat with / on / over
your body
wondering had the roots
cracked your casket
in search of water
lurching over my
lower half
apologizing
to no one
like the fat
sad child
I am.
SEAN MCNIE attended the creative writing program at California State University, East Bay where he graduated with a degree in English. He writes out of Oakland, California where he lives with no animals. Sean’s fiction has appeared in Bird’s Thumb and Noyo River Review.
