lives in the catacombs they found you in

on the first day. The sapphires I placed on 

your since sunken irises seemed to scream

when they picked them out⎯pocketed them. 

I didn’t know the cat-tailed lilies I left for you

would be confused for dried seaweed and pond scum. 

They lifted your body the other day and I could hear 

your bones sanding inside as they took you 

(to the city you weren’t allowed to enter), bagging you 

and calculating your age by the carbon 

that once filled. They don’t even know I used to 

touch you like that when the sun came up,

even the last day. They won’t bother 

to find your tombstone, 

but it’s the hardest your name will ever be.

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Terin Weinberg earned her MFA from Florida International University in Miami, Florida. She graduated with degrees in Environmental Studies and English from Salisbury University in Maryland. She is a lecturer in the English Department at DeSales University. Terin serves as a reader for Beaver Magazine. She has been published in journals including: The Normal School, Flyway: Journal of Writing & Environment, Red Earth Review, Dark River Review, Split Rock Review, and Waccamaw.