I am sitting in a car wash
for beautiful words
the sound of water
and how I had forgotten it
a tractor seat ‘s well worn cushion
a peanut in the side pocket
receipts for welding equipment
the remnants of a good cotton season
beige hallways with no art
flower arrangements in three rooms
I wished to write beautiful words about grief, but all I really have is the truth:
My father died on Jan 20, 2013.
I hadn’t seen him in seven years.
I missed his funeral.
My mother told me to stay away
because my queerness is like another death.
And then I went home anyway.
I loved him,
and he loved me.
So what do I do when someone becomes anecdotes
I am taking breathing lessons.