The Turtle

I sit awkwardly in my black dress with the tiny white flowers,

among a sea of black trash bags, in what was once your room.

Your Mom, oh, your sweet and devastated Mom, she brought me here,

to get swallowed by the bags, to choose what pieces of you to take.

I’ll do it, but only to ease her troubled mind, offer her something,

anything, other than another “I’m so sorry.”

You looked so peaceful, I almost didn’t see.

Almost didn’t see the shades of crimson life streaming

from your nose and your mouth, just an after-thought

of the actual big bang.  The gun looked fake.

The smell of casseroles wafted up the stairs.

I spot a small wooden turtle on your dresser, not banished,

not buried with all the rest of your one time treasures in the

sea of black trash bags, where I sit awkwardly,

in my black dress with the tiny white flowers.