This Last House

I ask her, “If my plane crashes,
would you put flowers on my grave?”

She does not speak or look my way.

I ask her, “If an auto-wreck steals
my soul from this earth,
would you mourn my passing?”

She only stares down,
fingers clasped together as if in prayer,
her mouth moving words silently.

I ask her, “What would you do
if I were to die in your arms?”

She does not raise her eyes
or acknowledge my presence.

Finally I tell her, “I’m sorry
for how things have turned out.”

She crosses herself,
then turns her back on this casket
that is my last house.

I watch her slip away,
beyond the beyond I am watching from.

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