Through a smile of inevitable momentum
she tells me
maybe I’ll leave them to you.
I open the coffin of little girls
each in their Sunday best
too late to confess the sins
that atrophied their joints and lips.
A symphony of pleasant mouths
with pleasant eyes
who guided you through your
Your attentive children,
soft bodies mutilated from decades of perfect posture.
I swaddle each in fine linens and
send them down river
with the promise of a pretty end.