by Natalie Marino

After the funeral,

after everyone else
goes home,

your hands are stained
with earth and blood.

The sun
falls flat into a field.

A solitary hill stands
alone

in the distance.

The twilight is full
of surrender.

You are left
like a mausoleum

aching
for white statues.

Natalie Marino is a physician and poet. Her work appears in Gigantic Sequins, Peatsmoke Journal, Pleiades, Rust and Moth, The Shore, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Memories of Stars, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press (June 2023). She lives in California.