gazing at her photo as if measures of time were echos
of the rapid beat of a hummingbird’s wing
for if he dared to linger upon the fading vision that was once her
even a second longer, her death would occur all over again
except for his memory, she was salt mixed with brown ash, bone and
four long screws which once held a plate in her neck
using those now for a porch swing she always wanted but never got
for he was as pig-headed as any man ever was
she fancied the idea of swinging a while with him
and drinking her sun-brewed ice-tea,
while shelling black-eyed peas as the sweet smell of honeysuckle hung to her pale skin
a waste of good wood and chain, he would tell her