When my aunt died, the neighbors knocked on her coffin to complain about the state of her lawn—or rather, lack of lawn. A natural-born biologist, her yard was the only untamed space on the block, a refuge for the birds and the bees, though it was far from the modern definition of sexy. The overgrown bushes put 70s porn stars to shame. Vines slipped through foundational cracks, urging the house to just let down her walls. Buds peeped through bathroom windows, dandelion-wishing for a show.
We lower her coffin,
fill in the pit with Walmart-brand dirt.
Even the roses are fake.
Originally published in Gone Lawn.
Kristin Gustafson is a poet and editor from Cleveland Heights, Ohio. She is one of Literary Cleveland’s 2023-2024 Breakthrough Writing Residents and is working on her first full-length poetry collection about mental illness and pop culture. Her work has appeared in HAD, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, BULLSHIT LIT, Gone Lawn, and elsewhere. You can watch her scream into the void on Twitter/X/Elon’s hellscape @KristinTheRed or post the occasional dog or horse picture on Instagram @KristinGustafsonE.