I can still feel the heat
from your hair,
rough and brown
like autumn grass
against my cheek
as I read to you,
Pooh and Piglet Go Hunting
And Nearly Catch a Woozle.
You’re nearly asleep
when I finish,
your fever flush
burnt into my skin.

We bury you a month later.

Your hair is combed
and cold in the casket.
Your cheeks are powder pink,
our first snowflakes sticking to them
and your grave dirt.

You rise in spring
with the snowdrops
and tulips, more colorful
than a makeup palette
pushing the dirt
from your gravestone,
its edges still jagged and fresh

You rise in spring
with your father’s eyes,
your mother’s ears,
a winter’s hunger on your lips,
and mud beneath your nails
clinging to the cream base
still smeared across your skin

You are horrible

But the narrow expanse
of your shoulders,
your face burrowing,
nose pressed
between my ribs,
your clinging
fingers all roots to dirt
so cold brings me to life again

You rise
in spring
and you feast
on my flesh.
I know this story.
I will follow you,
my son
And together,
we will be
forever.