They gave me a plastic urn with your last remains
one of those mass-produced, stamped-out pieces
of Made in Taiwan tokens none of us look at twice
at yardsales.  I couldn't afford the Memories of Brass
alternative they tried to sell me between hasty visits of
tissue from lap to eye.  This box held you like none
of us ever could and had an airtight lid.  It girdled
every flake of ash you left of the bones where they
hitched your meat.  I poured you into grandma's old
blue Moet vase she bought in Champagne the one
I used to love back when I still loved things that
didn't look back and smile.  I couldn't shake out all
the dust from that plastic box and stared at it until my
mind was made between rinsing and tossing and
finally tossed that little piece of you into the trash.

Even to this day I feel as if a part of you is missing
as, I guess, so is a part of me.

;{text}