we bond over dead sisters
& other things we collect
from losses in our lives—
her bicycle,
my mother’s house,
some fishing lures someone said
were my grandfather’s.
there’s a ripeness that took
its sweet-ass time getting here,
some fucked up fruit salad
with bananas you have to add yourself
in the days that follow ‘cause
they don’t hold up so well
—nuts left out
because someone long ago
was allergic or crazy.
i’ll finally sell her house now,
pass along these borrowed things
& maybe you’ll leave
her bike on the sidewalk
next to the neighbor kid’s jump rope,
the one who used to
bring her dog home.
who-the-fuck-ever said
you can’t take it with you
was not even a little bit right.
truth is, there’s no going anywhere
without it.
i pack away photos
of the garden i planted
the year it grew just right,
into a box with a nest
of easter grass
for the little blue bird ornament
she made from a pine cone
& i dust the glitter from my hands.
