A Question for My Husband While at My Father’s Memorial Service (or, Part One)

by Annie Powell Stone

we don’t know anything
          we don’t know anything
I keep thinking at the funeral
as rites are observed and special
words are said

he told us this would be
for the living
before he left and became ash,
when he helped plan this day
for my mother, his sweetheart

so I try to focus, even though
if this were a play
(isn’t it?)
the narrator would ask me
to suspend disbelief

          on a special day
          sit next to a believer
          see if some of the magic
          that in-the-moment glitter
          can stick to you too for a while

I’m standing in a space
between realities
even if it makes no sense
I want to ask: my love,
when I’m dust, will you bless me?

A Repeated Question for My Husband While at My Father’s Memorial Service (or, Part Two)

when I’m dust, will you bless me?
and rest me
in the dirt, so I can join soil
and be mixed in,
kin with kin

I’ll be a tree and you,
my love, will be the tide
to root and wash
when our souls move on
to wherever is next

this service today
for dad
is building-bound
I’m preoccupied with the lighting,
wires, programs, and chairs

          Oz wasn’t real
          the lie behind the curtain
          a heartbreaking lesson
          with glitter gone
          and a longing to go home

I’m kneeling in a space
between realities
and it makes no sense
we don’t know anything
          we don’t know anything

Tending and Turning

I am constantly asking my plants
to focus:

            Basil, don’t grow flowers,
            we need your leaves to be sweet,

            Strawberry, don’t volunteer an extra plant,
            keep your energy for the main crop,

            Figs, that’s too many,
            you’ll wear yourself out.

There is no judgment in these,
just simple knowledge that the magic
within a seed can grow to do many things
…but not all things.

Why do I begrudge myself the same advice?

            To hydrate,
            To cut back,
            To lie fallow.

Listening to British radio I learned an old adage:
“The best fertilizer is a gardener’s shadow.”

Meaning being present counts,
paying attention counts.

Embodiment the opposite of resentment.

BIO

Annie Powell Stone (she/her) is a fan of peanut butter toast. She uses poetry as ballast while navigating life. Her poetry has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her newest chapbook, Jewel Box, is forthcoming from dancing girl press & studio, Summer 2026; her chapbook Hampden Wildlife: Reflections on the Nature of a Baltimore City Neighborhood was published by Bottlecap Press, Summer 2023. She lives on the ancestral land of the Piscataway and Susquehannock people with her husband and two kiddos in Baltimore City, MD. Read more and sign up for her newsletter, An Infrequent Update, at anniepowellstone.com