By Craig McVay
Twice unlucky in love, Grace
never said a word about the dazzling blue tumors
bubbling in her stomach.
Proud Ohio stock, she disbelieved in doctors.
No hospital, no morphine.
No money, no will.
She had no truck with banks.
She lies well underground, pale
in the cheapest pine casket the cousins could find
at Franklin’s Funeral Services.
No stone. No flowers.
Her name blows silent in the blue August film
that drifts in the fields.
The boys and girls trudge row to row,
You step over her when you go to plant lilies
at your wife’s black granite gravestone.
Copyright McVay 2013