Her grave is unmarked.
She was to return to the earth
As suddenly as she died.
Eight years old.
Now the cemetery's in a rough part of town,
But it didn't used to be, you say,
It was lovely, the wide view of the city,
On a hill heavy with old trees.
Though death had reached around you early
And it wasn't anybody's fault,
The effort empties you,
Always dreaming how Rita might have been.
We argue about whether
To return my father there, too,
In the slum on the beautiful hill,
Remote, historic. He is very sick.
We almost know He will die in ninety days.
We almost knew. We talked under the trees
About a distant death instead,
The sky curved clear,
The air full of storm,
His going taking root,
And Rita coursing back to us.