Dead Salvage

And soon
I’ll sell the old house
that used to be
our home… but
first I’ve got to get.. his books out..
to save..
his leftover clothes,
his flip-flops, two shoes,
three tables, chairs,
an induction cooker,
an iron trunk, the small TV,
the memories..
and mounted eulogies of our guardians…
the walking stick
he kept
from his father, who
was swallowed there as well.
I think
I’ll burn his
lone bed, the one
where I used to sleep
as a child
betwixt its parents, so
that no one else
touches it!

 

 

From Book IV

The Last of Places

When
his mother died
and I watched them hoist
her large, irresilient frame
upon the pyre,
bare betwixt red sheets,
I was too little
to realize
that she’d never speak to me… again.

  
Then,
when it was time
for his father, and
they did away with
the worn, decrepit shape,
the same way
they had
for his wife, I
understood… that
I’d see them both again..
someday… in a place
we all go upon
our wanting, ashen ends.

  
And…
as I
set fire
to his remains.. the
ruin.. that had become of my father..
I had already
arrived at the deliberation
that mind
cannot outlive
the disorganization of its matter,
that oblivion
is akin
to the restful nothingness
of an eternal, dreamless sleep…
and that
the only place
where we
could all be alive… together…
was in the imprecision
of fading memories.

 

 

From Book IV