Deadheading

I woke early
this morning,
took down 
the two
 
photo albums
that bookended
the mantelpiece,
and began
 
to cut your image
from each
of the photos.
I planned to bury
 
the remains
behind the old
shed—where
once our tire
 
swing sat.
But mom 
caught me at it
and she hasn’t
 
stopped screaming
since. It’s been 
a week
and no one
 
knows where 
you are.
Do you?
I cut 
 
the images
using the small
sharp scissors
you put through
 
your tiny palm
once. One 
of our countless
trips to the emergency
 
room. What was
it you were 
so desperate 
to say?
 
Was god so distracted
he didn’t notice
the difference 
in the clay 
 
he held in each hand—
twins that bear
such little resemblance.
A bubble gum light
 
cuts through 
the house.
An official rap at the door.
You’re home.

Share!