The winter you buried me the snow fell one two three times over me and it felt almost like the house we made together which was always too cold, the house I’d decorate with the marigolds I’d grown in the side yard, the ones no one could see, how you’d bring marigolds to my grave, deep orange and pristine. How I could feel you wanting me above the layers of separation, above the crystalizing trees, and even above that, how you’d shouted your want into the sky, and it held it like a great saucer. Then under the ground, how my hair spread out like a rug, and I rose up as if planted, up like a crocus in the Spring. And you picked me and placed me on the table just where I always would sit, then in the morning I’d wake and set that table again and again, one two three times a day, lighting the pilot light in the stove, browning and serving, flank steak, chicken thighs, bread. When we lie in bed, I say don’t touch me, or I am still dead, but you do, you always do, and the snow erases my footsteps like a day. Isn’t that always the way.
Sara Moore Wagner is the Cincinnati based author of the chapbook Hooked Through (Five Oaks Press, 2017). Her poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies including Glass poetry journal, Gulf Stream, and Gigantic Sequins, among others, and is forthcoming in journals including Western Humanities Review, Harpur Palate, and Tar River Poetry. She has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, and for Best of the Net. Find her at www.saramoorewagner.com.