The Inheritance

During the Zoom eulogy
for Jess’ mother, I forget. I leave
the ice in place until my belly turns
plastic licked by flame. The next day,
a jagged pucker of freeze-dried skin
eggshell at the edges to remind me:
I was distracted and dumb, my body out of control
in ways I had not anticipated, in ways I forced it
to be. In the post-mortem moments
of the virtual tribute, we bathe in our own
abandonments, rinse each other’s hair
with lonely truths. There are so many ways
a parent can fuck us up, L muses,
almost impressed. After my mother
there wasn't much left—just greeting cards
warped by time and high blood pressure.
The photos always have a smell,
no matter who’s in them. Jess leaves
her inheritance in a backyard pile, waits
for the wind to lift the sticky odor of ash.
Meanwhile, with my camera turned off,
I take a needle to make abundance happen.
I cry because my skin is cruel canvas,
historically speaking. Because as I age
I notice lilacs and dead deer and children
wandering away from their parents and how
my friends look a little bit less like themselves
with each passing year. Every time I cry
I apologize for crying.
I don't know what will happen.