At least I wrote something

Ok...so it's not a sonnet...but you know.

Under

The other day I fell off the roof and died,
but the washing machine still tumbles change
and wine stains. Mother folds sheets
and washcloths. In a hole six feet deep,
I keep tally of the wriggling worms.

My grandfather lies beside me. Cold
bones, raw anatomy. He had a fig tree,
worm-infected. Now they feast on me.
Mother makes dinner, stirs her sugared
iced tea while I tug the roots of risen
daisies, and remember to forget how to breathe.