When I wrote about the grief inside myself
It wasn’t me I described
But you
The two of you who made the me
And then like rice thrown at midday wedding
Scooped me up and put me to boil down
On a high flame with no watchers
I burned to nothing
Leaving a sticky rim around the pan
Reminiscent of starch and glue
Like your clothes always pressed, clinging to your neck in hot weather
Or the piles of things he began and disguarded
I stepped
Out of the hot pan
Walked through greese and debris
Every step I took something stuck
Bits of dirt, jam, floss and mud
Moments
Pressed like thirsty flowers to dry flat between books
What would you have done differently, with the benefit of heindsight?
Too late for that ironic idiom, pass the parcel
Til you’re the last without a chair and resolve is bare
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