January 26, 2016
January 26, 2016

Asking by Austin Kinsey

 

I often wonder if I’ve ever touched your ashes.

 

If,
when we let them scatter in the woods,
they sifted onto a pine tree,
its green spindles stripped down to
bare bark.
I wonder did your
bones dust away
with a wing’s whip,
suspended in the air,
catching the brightness of the sun in a
marrow cloud.

 

Did you follow our car like a ghost?

 

Can you muddy
the gutters of my apartment?
Do I greet you in the morning
while I wash my coffee cup,
your sawdust soul seeping through a splinter of metal,
dripping
down
down past the window pane
drilling
craters in the concrete below.

 

Will you sleep there
through the winter?