My dead are scattered:
forest in elk country, sleeve of island off the city, graveyard filled with stars.
In the shadow of boulders on a mountain—she and I
hiked there each Sunday morning like church. Climbing, climbing
we would pause to catch our breath, pick up a feather or rock,
kiss like we were starving—her tongue tasting of granola and pine.
Foolish thief, I pocketed the arrowhead we discovered one fall.
How could I have known the cost of stealing from the dead?
That the mountain would demand something in return:
the violence of pills, her body in ash.