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we carry with us their weight everywhere:
photographs
in our wallets, in our pockets
hung from our car mirrors
in the frames over our beds
little by little they become a part of us
like our hair
we cut them down today
tomorrow they grow rougher
they announce their presence with an itch in our bodies
they die a short while after us
even after our coffin door is latched
they carry on growing.
wrapped up in white sheets
the mournful ring of phantoms
the weightlessness of a white rose on the chest
little by little
awareness of self
evaporates
and a wondering
possessing your complexion
momentarily, from an itch in the body
you get up
and look on her crumpled face
your tears
falling.
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