BURIAL
for a first husband

Like a sister who borrows
a blouse without asking,
the earth slipped

the ring from my finger
as I worked the soil
our first married spring

when your leaving
was a seed planted
beneath my knowing.

I dug among roots,
white tendrils, my emptied
hand snaking deep.

Months later
when the seed sprouted
there was nothing

left of you to remove.
The bare finger
wore the shape

of absence, pale
ring of flesh the sun
was slow to touch.