Death poem

When I boil you down, cousin,
this is what comes out:
I did not know you.
I do not know what is lost,
only that it is lost,
and that now we are carving the statue
that commemorates the losing.
It will sit in a place of horror
on your mother’s dresser
and in your father’s garage
and by your brother’s bedside,
and when they discard the excess marble,
I will slip a shard into my jacket pocket,
where I will promptly forget about it
until the day it cuts my hand.

For Jack Enright
Drafted December 19, 2023
Edited June 3, 2025