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. 

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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. 

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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?

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My unread text hangs there, 

hinged on your last words, 

your last night on Earth. 

My sweater waiting there 

for your return 

like all the things I wish we’d done. 

Like your empty bar stool 

sitting just out of reach, 

your name, black marker on duct tape, 

slapped on the back, 

saving your World Series seat. 

BLANK

Now you have a seat at the Table: 

that eternal place where love doesn’t wait, 

hope isn’t left to die, 

and plans aren’t buried like a dead bird 

under a cup of earth. 

Would it defile your grave 

to dig letters in the dirt, 

plant seeds that sprout 

deep green grass every spring? 

Blades stretching for the sun, 

tiny arms trying to reach you, 

living letters spelling the words, 

I love ya.