The dead speak in numbers
that I can understand.
I run my fingers across dates
and do calculations in my head.
I scrape dirt out of letters
that don’t make sense.
Letters don’t add up,
letters only subtract
from the balance of understanding.
I collect the wilted flowers
and scatter their seeds
close to the stones,
out of the reach
of the hungry machines.
I spread my checkered blanket
and arrange my gifts
on the marble altar –
flowers from the roadside
and shells from the bay.
The type of treasures I still find,
clanging around the bottom of the dryer,
woven into lint filled filters,
tucked away safe in empty drawers.
Pretty little broken things,
that make no sense.
Molly Kilduff Greer (she/her) was born and raised in the suburbs of Washington, DC, where she currently resides with her husband and two children. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in 34 Orchard and Green Ink Poetry. You can find her on Twitter: @MKGreerPoetry.