Did you know that in the will he made
before he lost his mind, he left it to me?
I cried when I read the old bequest, as if
there had been a subtle restoration
of regard before the bullied revision.

These gaudy heirlooms have little use
except the scrap of spirit they keep,
a sigh inside the gleam of a carbon heart
that is the bitter moral. It is what I hold now
and wish it was only a stone

to reset in the pretense
of carrying all that shimmers
into the world. I feel the loss all the same,
profound as the document that does not
even mention my name.

In my dream I thread fishing line
and hang his ring on a strand of sea glass,
watch it rattle in the wind, scatter its spray
of perfect yellow light, a sunlit apology
to my modest porch.

Image credit:Annie Spratt

Sara Clancy is a Philadelphia transplant to the Southwest.  Her chapbook Ghost Logic won the 2017 Turtle Island Quarterly Editors Choice Award. Among other places, her poems have appeared in Off the Coast, The Linnet's Wings, Crab Creek Review, The Madison Review, Misfit Magazine, Avatar Review and Verse Wisconsin. She lives in the desert with her husband, their dog, two ordinary cats and a psychotic cross-eyed one.