Magazine and writing resources 

I want to browse in the stonemason’s yard,
cup the palm of my hand over the curve
of an angel’s wing, the smooth bulb of an urn.
I would trace my finger along the sharp valleys
of newly-chiselled Rest in Peace and Much Loved
Wife and Mother. I would watch my shifting
reflection in black marble, crouch to hold
a cold cherub in my arms, but tell
the suited salesman that I’m just looking.

My bones won’t rest in the ground.
Humerus and femur will hollow into wind chimes,
wrist and ankle bones make rattles for dark nights,
and the cap of my skull will catch light
on a windowsill, on a hill.