When they put you in that box-
Mauve silk suit, fine Italian leather
Shoes that always fit too tightly,
Fingernails covered in misty lilac

I worried if you were claustrophobic
And God, if you were afraid-

Keeping you alive, I whispered,
"Mama, we'll always be with you,"
And slipped photographs of me and
The rest under your jacket

Now the Grass thick on your grave-
Spills onto the next Nothing
separates you from the dead-
Except me

I step carefully, aware of
Where your face may be, feeling the
Layers, the density trying
to push me farther away

Sitting at the foot of
Your grave, I ask, not expecting an
Answer in this new phase of your life,
"Mama are your shoes still tight?"