Coffee Bean Babe

Black dogs hold the sky in their teeth,

as it splits in hail

and laughter, over

a hundred years of tombs, home

for soft spring moss.

In the living memory of father, he is

a black bird beating

the branches of trees. In the living memory of

mother –

a headline plunging to the Thames.

My heart is made of sand,

it goes

with the wind, scattered

around the cemetery chapel —

a ghost in dirt.

Wild sky rumples,

and a pile of clouds open

heart shaped, pale.

In the abyss, coffee bean babe

lingers

featherlight.