This—
it’s her last note to us,
this little watercolor
she painstakingly brushed
on a postcard. Just
a patch of grass. It’s like
she was painting her eyelashes
for the grass, how she saw them—
upside down, from the inside out
            maybe
part of a meadow. Maybe.
She wanted it to be perfect,
each blade sketched deliberately—
blue, then green, a little
yellow touch. It’s not beautiful,
just a patch of grass, might be
anywhere, maybe the only
view you’ve got. And then

this, under the grass, the words
Goodbye I love you
Laurie. In scratchy
handwriting. Exhausted.
You’d probably turn it over
in disbelief. But there’s 
nothing on the other side.