[38] Pathos, Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas

I told the dog she went on a walk without him,
he waits like an abandoned shadow.
Someone stole the gift I laid on her tombstone,
a crystal initial that once began the spelling of her name.
Thievery is forgiven when overshadowed by loss
because loss is thievery in its trickiest form.
A daughter will never be the same without a mother—
my happiness was buried with the body that birthed me.
My bird has become a broken vessel for her—
on the days it bites, my heart bleeds clear.
Her window mirrors grief and the olive tree brushes
against the glass like the tapping of Morse Code

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