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Dark Oregon roads roll into the night and pines.
The dead end is home to my grandmother,
a skeleton with skin stretched over bones
who asks me the same question three times
At home,
a child takes my palm and presses it against his cheek
His skin is smooth like fresh milk and with his touch, I feel relief
He is a reminder of the circle that makes skeletons seem less like a sudden stop
I find my father doing laundry at midnight
He hosts a heavy soul these days, tumbling like the clothes he washes at strange hours
There is a ringing in his ears he cannot silence:
I wonder when it will crescendo and what white noise I could gift to him
The eldest tells me we cannot offer remedy
but we can clug wine into jars, soak our throats with ruby, and rest ourselves at the dining table
for as long as we need
And so we do
Everything is slower in December
This year has been a steady slur,
unspecific and temperate, bitterly unclear,
taunting me in its nothingness,
dangling Death in my periphery,
(daring me to call her by name)
hanging me up by my shoulders,
letting me sway in the wet wind like midnight laundry,
like skeleton bones clanking against one another,
the closest sound we have to music tonight.