I place a photo
of your friend,
just dead,
against a candle
on our half-wall.
And one of his
wife and child,
that we may
think of them
throughout the week
and remember him.
The day before the service,
a sunny, perfect day
warm as summer
in February,
the French doors open
letting in bugs.
I walk through the house
and find him there,
his photo having
left the others
It lies against the step
head down.
He folds a floral paper plate
a fresh strawberry pressed
to it.
The t-shirt he wore to our
wedding with the wolf
on the front.
An expression of mock
as he looks
straight ahead.

Sarai Austin