I've wiped flour and grounds off the counter.
You've scrubbed our mugs for morning.
A banana darkens the freezer.
Those spices we'll never use all up.
On tile I rest forehead, tweak knobs.
Lather, bath, stare off through wall
and beyond our sky
before I'm caught
by your face
framed by the end of the curtain.
I nearly slip and push down the stop
so water makes to fill the tub.

I keep the dead in our living room—
the women and men of letters,
canons, and my dear brother
in a miniature urn on my desk. There
must be some bone chunks in there.
They make the rattle in the soft ash
I shake right this moment
in the black on this natural page.

Your father calls the inside of a cashew
nut-meat, and says, every time,
could you hand me the thingy—
and everyone just knows
exactly what he means.

Pull the bottle from the freezer,
pour two-fingers, pinky and index.
Crack the tray to free the cubes.