Catatonic

I think I know where you buried him.
Where he always used to be,
When the sun deigned to shine,
Or feigned a glow-
In the grass you often forgot to mow.
Underneath red rings of berried rowan,
And right by the roses, by now
Long past any honest bloom.
I think it was there, in full sight
Of both the kitchen and the drive,
Where like a laundered tuxedo he would lie.
Yes, there.
You buried him there.

I'm not sure where I can bury him.
For now, I entomb myself in her shoulder,
Her pashmina poached in Chanel no 5.
Thank God,
Thank God, that you are both till alive.
It's not the same, but still.
Pinned now against the chasm of my chest,
Is the tracing paper silhouette
Of his form. His folds.

We eat out, for at home
His empty chair was much too alone.
No mat for him,
But there he sat, all the same.
In the grave of my mouth
I shovel rose ice cream and then
He is there again,
Under the red rings of rowan.

I will bury him in my cheeks,
For that is where he always used to be.
Stroking their buds
With his velvet glove.
I will smile and
I will keep him in my cheeks.
Yes.
That's where he should be.