while the sky slowly burns me

How sordid is the raw earth

above your body,

the plastic pink flower

on another person’s grave,

the jar of brown water

and floating stems.

I walk in the rows

while the sky slowly burns me,

and makes me sweat.

I touch the thigh of a white angel

at the door of mausoleum, but

I’m afraid to

touch her face,

hairline-cracked. How sad

are the sunken-in crosses

and cracked bellies

of these flat family beds.

My eyes eat their deaths,

smearing tears I don’t share.

How quickly do I break,

when pushed a little.