The Nelligan Review

Someone has died
Someone whose name I fold into
Someone who I fold into
Folded intentional wrinkle
But there are others
Living in those severed spaces
I am sharing into the severed spaces
What is a garment kept as memory
What is a cold cloth suffocated in a dark box and unminded
He kept so little in large boxes in a closet in a dark room and it was too much to admit us
The thought of his voice is the dark dust thickening the dark wood floor in the dark night
And layering darker and darker into morning
He has not died but I am mourning
The only thing he kept for us
Will burn