That my uncle would scream.
That he would scream at all hours with his grandchildren downstairs.
The curtains drawn, the dormers dark and alive with death and my uncle, restrained and unrestrained, working the limits.
º º º
At my aunt’s funeral, my uncle called my name. That was all.
It was spring when she died. My uncle lived to not see another spring summer fall, to not open a blind. We buried him in the cold.
Walking through the graveyard, the journeyman qua nurse, my cousin’s hire, regales us with my uncle’s last two years.
º º º
The silver cord, the golden bowl, the long home. The cord slips, the bowl cracks, the long home.
The silver chord, the scratched CD that plays a snatch of song again, again. Where will death’s foreplay scratch me, scratch me?
On what will I fix, what neuronal lifeline, my golden bowl at sea?
“Trill” are my Twitters. Tweet suites from @slowreads.