The Waves Thin My Skull
In the soil your body dries. In my memory it stays wet— like beach sand after the tide retreats, each wave thinning my skull. Your son draws your face inside his mind. You slip away from him. Your daughter whispers your name— it dries her throat. The blanket on my body itches. The moon burns. I press a blade to my skin to quiet the itching. The blanket darkens. I sit before you— or what is left of you. Your sweat once clung to me like something alive. Now I stare at the burning moon. It is you. Still burning. Still gone.