Somehow it all ends up here—
her Marlboros disintegrate
in a warm can of half-drunk Pepsi,
her mother urned on my mantel,
her.
In August, cicada shells turn
to powder under my heels. I know
I must have inhaled dozens.
I feel their birth-song screech,
sandpaper its way down my throat
and I am left
with her face, a thousand grains of sand,
her smile, finding its way back
only in my head—
every single one of us ready
to be carried away
by a sudden breeze.
