I never touched the corpse’s hand

at my grandfather’s wake

It looked like a designer

bag contained under a glass box

Regardless, I cried with each fire

of the three-volley salute

This past Valentine’s day, faint

tunes followed me like mist

A young girl’s voice echoes

in the elevator shaft

Later, my mother reads my palms;

you can sense them, she said.

I watched you die on your brother’s wedding day

That oasis of chest hair flat with sweat

Afterward, I curled my hair

and tried to calm my trembling hands

Was I a bad person being grateful

when your old belongings were no longer of use?

Like your new car, in a space where my thighs

were the only ones you’ve gripped like a water bottle in July

I began to waft up to the ceiling later that night,

smelling of cigar smoke and what I assumed was cabernet

And woke to your smiling eyes, crinkled like when

someone gingerly places an old terrier on the sofa cushion

My father told me that the true sign

of a man’s love is when he looks

back at me while I walk away

but I’ve never met someone who

watched me like I carry Sodom

and Gomorrah on each of my shoulders

He also told me that my body is a temple,

but I choose how I worship and come

as I am in my grey sweatpants,

the kind that looks like it’d be remembered

on a Sunday in October, with pockets deep

enough to sink my bored hands into--

its brand name repeated around

the waistband, reading like a shibboleth

A cello plays in the distance

like in an impending jump scare

as I catch you watching me drive off

from my rearview mirror, the dome light

appearing like a crown to you

as my father sleeps a restless night