Dusk is the time, all mottled
and thin, when her blank eyes rise
to stare in a way I know
they cannot. Six feet of soil
covers a secret; daisies
tell of old plots. A grave smile
worms its way, twisting through thought;
a knife blade biting cold flesh,
slicing through the haze of years
to an olive grove in shade.
Such raucous cries, a murder
of crows circling, disguise a
demise in vines far below.
First published in Black Poppy Review May, 2015