Afternoon Service

We bury her in the dark, noisy sanctum 
near the air conditioner. The earth 
so hard and dry it barely crumbles 
beneath your plastic shovel. 

Lumps of gray hold her feathers in place, 
silk and satin juxtaposed against grime and grit. 
They ripple tremulously in the breeze, 
mirror the softened trembling of your lips. 

Your little hands cannot resist these textures, 
tearing at the holes in the stories. 
How love cannot save something so fragile, 
doomed from the start. 

How it won't erase 
the black circles under my eyes, 
ever bring your father and I 
back together again.