dirt gets strewn on the granite,
ants make homes in the rainwater-clogged vases.
this monument to the dead is as vulnerable as the dead.
I come and clean the ants away,
drown them in bottled water,
scrub the dry mud from the letters of
your one unspeakable name.
this is what a woman does:
kneel on a godless earth and
wash wash wash,
make new the aged stone,
breathe in the broken glass of her grief.