Apology

First Place in the Smartish Pace Beullah Rose Poetry Prize.

After you died,
I had the branches trimmed,

to let more light
into our tomb.

When sun flamed
our sheer curtains that day,

I realized how much
had been removed—

the maimed trunk
standing naked

in the massacre of branches
lapping its feet,

like a rising tide of grief.

I still see
you climbing

on whole limbs,
sun haloing your hair

through the green screen.

My fear of your death
dead too,

but still burning
like an afterimage,

as you climb the invisible,
no earth to fall on,

or soft bones to break
on stone.