I attend is his, is hers,
the ones that never happened.

I marvel at the graveside, at the coffin
holding not him, not her,

but someone I loved, which I could not
always say about them.

And later, when I go sit on the grass bed
spread over the friend in my neighborhood

cemetery, I sit with him, with her, too,
looking out at the expanse of lawn,

the shorn green quilt over so many
who were. And they arrive there,

in that moment, to settle themselves
into the damp grass

like companionable dogs, some
I knew, some I didn’t, all those

heaving sides and lolling tongues
keeping me company.

“It’s OK, honey. We know,” they offer,
the benediction of the dead,

gentler now, softening this old,
hard heart beating atop the grave

of one who adored me, and I her,
rooting me to my family tree,

closer to those who made me
me.