Sylvia Sexton - Free Form Vignette. 15.7.23.

They say I am like her,

and her,

but that is

blasphemous,

backhanded as

my sorrow must

bleed through.

Cannot make it

pretty,

there is no way

to make it

tender.

Cannot wish it into

a petal, a leaf,

there is no way

to warm the

sun.

They say I am like her,

but she is in

the dirt buried by

her own

hands,

and her hands

too!

She cried straight

into the

crypt.

Diagnosed with

the

disease of

death.

Do they also say

they hope

I end

like her,

or her,

too?