this season's graves are made to measure, narrowing at the hips
and Natalie's is just my size, from skull to toe-bone tips
unbuttoned, unpicked, the tailored skin she tended to with care
the lips at which her husband sipped are now no longer there
seams that hold together grass and graveside now conceal
her undergarb of pelvis, jaw and vertebrae revealed
dead with living, corpse to hill, each to the other sewn
among the churchyard's safely dead, she and I are home.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Rob Hodkinson would
be pleased to hear them.