I built a headstone from baby blocks,
tiny letters stacked across the bed.
Flowers crept through cracks in the floorboard,
a procession of words caught under my tongue,
strange names for rain, sun.
I spoke to weather but not to myself.
I reached for the glass. I hid behind stone.
I spelled her portrait across my body,
skirted the lines between limb and vein
until even the idea of her felt cool to the touch.
I planned my own funeral instead of hers,
the map to the house swallowed through clouds.
And still, doctors gathered outside my window,
a nest of eggs buried beneath their feet.