When we buried you,
I didn’t know Jews don’t do
clothing after death,
or display bodies
without breath. You were buried
without your glasses.
Without shoes. Those clothes
are for the living, to guard
us from exposure.
//
We weren’t dressed for rain;
it slashed us through the sides of
the over-grave tent,
the darkness bleeding
from our bodies to the dirt
upended for you.
//
You liked to dress up.
Popped tux collars suited you—
slicked hair, breath-shined shoes.
Your ties and cufflinks
now repose—disembodied,
still—in my closet.
I’m still holding on,
too, to your college sweatshirt,
older than I am
but still hanging on
by its own threads. I’ll wear it
right into the ground.
