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.