It's nice how your veil
gives you black freckles
in the graveside sun.
You are the last picture on the wall,
hanging in the corner of the hall.
I wish I could touch your face, your back,
the way you breathed on my pillow,
lightly and openly.
It was hot and you had been sleeping
all day long in my bed.
What I have now is a photograph of you
at a funeral where relatives whispered
like snakes, shiny and well-dressed in the grass.