A Private Wake by Meghan L. Bucknell On park benches and blades of grass where forgotten men sleep, heat and flies buzz like radio static, while barking dogs and passing cars peel pavement. Her presence sits heavy in the air and on my shoulders. Automatic messages of movement to my limbs. Lift, open, pour, repeat, numbing my thoughts. Honeysuckles wilt like the lines I loved about her face lines that will show on me. I thought she would be here still. Bending, the tears miss my shoes. The blades of glass drink them up. theMeadow 89
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