She Brushes Dirt from the Stone by David Mihalyov

A fresh bouquet beside her,
bright colors to offset the gray,
ready for presenting to someone
unable to appreciate the gesture.

I stand nearby at my parent’s grave,
their weathered stone less tidy.
They share a plot, more intimate now
than I remember them in life.

She rises, wiping hands
along the thighs of her jeans
and I see in her wet eyes a grief
more recent than mine.

At my mother’s service, I held
the box which held her ashes.
Unsure of what to do
when the ritual had finished,

I approached a man smoking
by a truck, waiting for us to finish.
He told me to place them by the grave,
said he would take care of it.

How strange to let a stranger
be the last to hold her.



David Mihalyov lives in Webster, NY, with his wife, two daughters, and beagle. His poems and short fiction have appeared in several journals, including Concho River Review, Dunes Review, Free State Review, New Plains Review, and San Pedro River Review. His first collection, A Safe Distance, was published by Main Street Rag Press in 2022.