Frances Koziar
After

My
fist
is tight
when I should
let go; dirt crumbles

at
the
edges.
The others

are waiting, silent
and still as the tombstones around.
Fog

creeps
across
the grass, it
hazes out the sun.
I

can
smell salt
from the sea
but
no
lights pierce
this grey, no
call answers mine as

I uncurl my fist and watch the
rest
of
the dirt
cascade down

until I can no longer see
your
name,
and can
only feel
it burning inside.