When she died,

she carried her carbon to the grave

and you, alone walked along,

Somehow I went in that history

and yet we not in the history,


I don’t understand.


Her hands,

her lips treated you like the pit

just another smooth oil

poured out,

glistening in the light, the coldness,

the spilt moisture.


Seasons slipped,

We’re standing replacing age

this is your voice

racing through a town

looking for simple roses

for dressing her.



Dave Barber

Remembering that night