Washing Up 

my hands    are dirty

I’ve been

digging

hit bone, hit earth,

hit rock, hit bone
You are gone
deep in Earth’s

core,

away from the

center

of my heart
You are dead
my hands

are dirty

I’ve been

cleaning

up your

blood

from the rug
Red finger tips

like my mother’s

 

lipstick
I thought I was her

then there was

you

consuming me

like a

fresh

catch
I bit the bait

but never bled

the stars           tell stories
of new love
and old families
ancestors,
those who’ve
glimmered in the sky before us
hidden
among constellations
and bright white

who we are lies
within the shapes
of fish and lions
somehow we’re able to
connect
our lives
with the small fragments of light

stars are already
dead
and we’re already
alive

Aside

Bones

He had skeletons in his closet;
I knew how to set them free.
We watch the bones turn to ash
in the October wind.

My blue Bic lighter flicks
and the composition paper burns
down by the water,
down into the earth.

Black ink dances in dust.
it smells like death.
it smells like life.
Breathe a new beginning.

Every wrong he’s done,
and all the wrong done to him
floats into the atmosphere.
Burning, dissipating, crumbling,
resurrecting into gray clouds.

The bones wail and mourn.
The closet is empty.
I wouldn’t let him keep the urn
even if he wanted to.