They buried her in the late winter, under
the broken fingers of trees, warming with
sunlight through gaps in the clouds:
seasonally affective, buried in the sky.
Her body had bent and broken against
the hood of the SUV, cracked bones and
smashed brains smeared out of her frame
when the driver ran her over again.
She was wearing her favorite dress but
they didn’t see it at the funeral, they didn’t
see her twisted body. I remember her
eyes, the way she looked when she said goodbye.
They buried her in late winter, and I cried
behind the door of my bedroom, reading her
letters, the last notes of a life choked by
broken fingers under a seasonally affective sky.