Sage

It doesn’t matter who
sweeps.
The crumbs stay
stuck on my    socks,
traveling with me
until a   vacuum
sucks them   up.

The grill pan   smokes.
Years rise  UP
toward my kitchen
ceiling
while I turn on the    fan
to      chase it all
away.

This might be,
me
erasing   memory…
while my aunt
inhales
the fog,
turns off lights,
takes out Grandma’s
wedding album,
places it next to
her    own.

I have my smoke.
Sage wakes my   mornings,
burning.
Smells like  the present,
Clears my    past
away into oblivion.

I’ll light it
every morning,
smoking in my    seashell,
because
every night,
she will cry.

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