We divided what was left of him,
and then divided that.
He was tossed to ocean
and to mountains by
the trails as if we needed him
to sail off, as if we needed
to erase his suicide, forget his cries
for help disguised in ways
we could not hear.
Mom kept his urn of what
was left, she played
him Schubert, Mozart,
played her heartstrings
til the day her home burnedÂ
down and ashes joined
with ashes in the wind.
published on Imogene's Notebook
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