la façon de laisser aller.

i want nothing. except.
maybe. that my brother be taken care of. and
my cats. if only
i could be sure of these things, then it would
be okay.

the rest. do with what you will.
some live
their whole lives
barely clothed. with
nothing. they can call
their own. no
trinkets. no
treasures. and i? have
far more than one person
could possibly carry.
should
it come to that. say,
in case of fire or high water. so.

those things?
let my friends divvy for
what they wish. they all
have great taste. i am certain,
they'd appreciate the things
that granted me, for some while, on this planet
a sense of
home.

all things.
lose their meaning in context
eventually.
my grandfather's suspenders. too large
and long for me.
that heady cork. from a faraway
winter's forgotten plum wine. you buried
in your jewelry box then.
ticket stubs. art
supplies. favorite
socks. good writing
pens. disposable cameras
spent. but not.
developed. these
snapshots of a life.
become someone else's history to
the finder,
eventually.

as trite and opaque as the
polaroid as bookmark, tucked
in some thriftstore novel.
someone else's fiction. my life
will never hold truth
outside
my head. so.

i want nothing. except.
maybe. that my brother be taken care of. and
my cats. though
nothing. not
even
this
is guaranteed. even he,
Precious Boy,
will fade. and
those small-pawed footsteps fall
as silent
as
the photos undeveloped. briefly
captured. but
abandoned. yesterday's
dance. kinetic
paralysis. once warm, a
spirit now cold. and
forgotten as
that long ago taste
of one winter's
plum wine.

-j