we shed dander
into cloth teeth and plastic tongues
that ate to fill their cushion
as comfort for the next collapsing aorta
and sometimes the proof of our body’s betrayal
drifted and built like snow
into the crevices of a rearranged alphabet
and dampened the sound of what little purpose remained
and we’d listen to someone talking
that sounded like a plate spinning in a dying microwave
or the reheating of something once recognizable
some days we’d feel the parts that left
the summer the oak died
the shattered ornaments that made our holidays
the year dad didn’t talk
a jaundiced television pastor
other days left without much ceremony
dying like seasonal menu items
after a few years
of friends dying
I asked if we had won the war
and he said “what war?”
and I said I didn’t know
or if we ever fought for anything
