Untitled

click to enlarge

I am used to feeling broken.
I have been through things.
Your ashes spilled onto my shoe.
Ashes, ashes—
In my closet, the ashes of my brother.
Rosy Doyle’s ashes in my closet.
The post man brings your ashes to my door.
He rings the bell.
I sign to receive what is left of your body.
Your ashes—
My oldest brother’s ashes
on my dining room table.
I tell you, I have been through things.
Sometimes memory is a lot like rust.