A handkerchief in her pocket, initials
almost yours. She embroidered them
herself, first attempt at the seed stitch,
so K looks more like H. If she had known
you’d go so soon she would have planted
you in the backyard alongside tomato plants
to ensure that you would thrive. Drowned you
in resin like an insect or a flower, fastened
you around her neck on a chain whose clasp
requires extra hands, another body, to undo.