Superstition and grooming
don’t mix in graveyards.
Urn selection can be a fun activity
for two—no more. Decisions
made during grief
break over our heads
as lightning on a warm October night.
A thunderous silence
leaves me counting
to digits even you
hadn’t planned to touch.
urns
He Said He Didn’t Believe
in a god, but the soul, yes. I don’t want
to write about urns
or the contents of any vessel I can’t
submerge in a tank
of amnesia. Whom
I envy is a matter
up for a discussion
I’m not prepared to have. What seemed
too soon becomes too late—the interruption
of beliefs is complete.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 