Groping for underwear in my top drawer
my fingers brush the velvet bag I shoved
far in the back, not knowing where to store
spent casings from the guns that fired above
my mother’s casket. That was a month ago.
Today—deep breath—I spill them in my hand,
these hollow fossils from that blast of woe
fired in her honor. A woman veteran
gave me this bag, then helped with the flag,
folded up the way I fold my phyllo,
corner by corner. I remember some vague
condolences, some snow. Now brass tubes glow
and click against each other, tap, tap, tap.
I warm them in my palm, then pour them back.
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