She’s so insistently chipper I hear
something militant in her cheer,
her chit chat’s peppery pith:
You’ve got to just get over it. Lashed
by loss herself, did she hold on
so hard her suffering toughened
into this? Her hope’s as brisk
an industry as cells crisscrossing
to cover horror; she packs
her upbeat stats, survival rates.
And sure enough this full-blown June arrives
with its stacks of paper plates – Don’t let the breeze
get these her pint of homemade relish –
Could you just pop this open, please?—
its airtight tang released.
As sumptuous as another summer is,
why would I dwell? What’s to worry about?
That all my green might be used up?
That my gold might never get out?
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