Grandpa's dead
we get his shed.
Mom says we'll load
it in the truck.
Maple helicopter seeds
spin down gracefully
but his plane; no such luck.
The sun too goes down
while mother's brothers frown
and she leads the sorting crew.
On a tin roof I watch
while hunched adults haul
in hay field three feet tall.
Where Gramp's plane fell
dad prays he's resting well
but I think Mom thinks
he's in hell.

Your image remains on my retina
and your touch remains on my skin

I've waited seven years
for all my cells to be replaced
but you always seem to win

I forgot my favorite poem
but I remember your grin

And only my memory knows about
the dimple on your chin

I remember the streaks in your iris

but I forget how I've been

I think I'm losing against myself
in this war within

I wish you'd hold me even when I push back.

Your voice is telling me
a story.
Your eyes, another.
The blinding confusion,
it tells me that,
Perhaps it isn't a story
to be told,
But a chapter to be written.