first drafts.

the clueless among us say death is only a beginning. they talk clouds and blinding light and happiness. from my pocket, i pull out my father’s tumor, still warm. a thin rivulet of blood slides down my forearm to my elbow, and falls staining the sidewalk. death can be so small, i tell them. and the dead so greedy, robbing your memories while you sleep. every morning a beautiful black bird visits my mother at the kitchen window. at first i asked your father what he wanted she said, but he didn’t reply and didn’t have to at night she sleeps with a framed picture of a my father the soldier, grey beret, beautiful skin, eyes dense like a raven’s. she brings flowers every day to his tomb. sometimes roses, sometimes carnations, whatever is on sale and looks firm. these she tapes to the polished slab of granite that covers his crypt. on her way out she begs the caretakers not to take down the flowers until the next morning. but i’ve seen the their tractor and the cart it pulls, heading to a dumpster, a heap of broken stems and crushed petals, plastic water bottles, cards.