Grown in the Grass of Your Grave

Susan M. Pendley

When I said I’d sleep on your couch, 

we both knew that was a lie. 

But my sweater slipped into the couch, 

snuggled into the cushions, 

sinking into the idea of us. 

BLANK

I think of my cute, new cropped knit top— 

black with tiny, shiny buttons, 

hiding in your couch 

as you sat watching TV. 

Found and folded, draped over the back, 

touching you, watching with you 

for those two weeks. 

BLANK

The time it took you to find it, 

to talk about camping and biking, 

to invite me to the studio 

while you host your radio show. 

To finally take that step, 

the oh-so-close, 

I love ya. 

To finally have a plan in place 

to meet at Billy Strings. 

BLANK

I didn’t see that eternal clock, 

the last time you’d sign off, 

until I heard— 

like any Houstonian tuning in— 

the voice of your good friend. 

Before he said the words, 

I knew: no more shows, 

no biking in the woods. 

You had taken your last ride. 

BLANK

The news marched up my arms, 

a wildfire devouring a swath

in the field where hope grows, 

exposing that place where love waited. 

Where does it go when you can’t give it away? 

Do I let it die beside your fresh grave 

like a bird that fell from the sky?