Emily Brochin

Cinquain I

You’d never

take the thermos

back, though it was a gift.

I have poisoned such pleasures now.

It sits.

Cinquain II

I threw

the dirt atop

his coffin. Handed the

shovel to the rabbi.

Cinquain III

Down the

mountain crisp with

frost. Held onto a dying

tree for balance. Your hand was dry.

Love ends.