On the plane I have a dream I’ve left half my
           torso on the back porch with my beloved. I have to go
back for it, but it’s too late, I’m flying
           and there’s only half of me.
Back in Texas, the flowers I’ve left on
           the counter have wilted and knocked over the glass—
I stay alone there so the flowers are more than flowers.
At the funeral parlor with my mother, we are holding her father’s suit,
           and she says, He’ll swim in these.
For a moment, I’m not sure what she means,
until I realize she means the clothes are too big.
I go with her like a shield in case they try to up-sell her—
           the ornate urn, the elaborate body box.
It is a nice bathroom in the funeral parlor,
           so I take the opportunity to change my tampon.
When I come out my mother says,
Did you have to change your tampon?
And it seems a vulgar life all at once. Or not
           vulgar, but not simple.
I’m driving her now to the Hillside Cemetery where we meet
           with Rosie who is so nice we want her to work
everywhere. Rosie as my dentist. Rosie as my president.
My shards are showing, I think. But I do not know what I mean
so I fix my face in the rearview, a face with thousands
           of headstones behind it. Minuscule flags, plastic flowers.
           You can’t sum it up, my mother says as we are driving
and the electronic voice repeats, Turn Left onto Wildwood Canyon Road,
so I turn left, happy for the mundane instructions. Let us robot at once.
Tell me where to go. Tell me how to get there.
She means a life, of course. You cannot sum it up.