That’s what Robin told her
beloved sister before she died.
That’s what her beloved sister
told me as we sat around the table
one cozy drunken night.
I hate to see them plunked
there by the headstone,
so fat and full of blossoms.
Then no one comes back.
The sun scalds them
the wind blows them sideways
they get covered with clippings
when the maintenance guys mow.
By summer’s end they are
brown
crispy
broken
despondent.
So please, no geraniums on my grave.
That is why
a long time later
one sultry summer night
I took the geraniums from her grave
brought them to my windowsill
gave them a glass of water
poured a glass of wine for me
and smiled
as we toasted our friend.
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