by Benjamin Kuzava
I have this assortment of dead
things for you. I hope you like them,
and I know I don’t have the body
you’re looking for, but our uncle was too heavy
to haul here in the way you would’ve liked,
or I was afraid that you’d keep talking
to him—prop him up and ask
about movies he’s seen, or plans to see,
or what Colorado is like.
Or maybe
I should’ve lugged him over here
from Denver. Dead things have a way
of explaining themselves. This bird’s beak
was smashed in a car door, and its owner
couldn’t feed it afterward. Feel this handful
of moths, or this rabbit’s foot—some of us hold
onto things that were never quite ours. I wish
you’d understand this picture of our dad’s eyes,
so I’ll end with this pit bull, it looks like ours—
they won’t be so different soon; I don’t know
which death is the right one, which death
is ease-into death—the death
to begin with.
I do know
that I don’t like carrying so much
around with me, but it’s something we do.
Maybe you don’t yet. Or can’t yet.
I don’t expect—I don't want you
to feel the weight of all these pieces,
but they have to go somewhere.
As for Uncle Danny, he’s all shoulders
now. All whispering in my ears.