Between her infant fingers,
The stones come loose
With the dark soil,
In easy twos and threes.
Pulling at every earthly crease and fold
She’ll not remember the box,
To which all are bound,
Being lowered beneath her.
Nor will she recall the stillness.
Or the pebbles she placed
Into her mother’s patient hands,
At his graveside.
On the surface,
Under her blackened nails,
The world draws a line.