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everything we throw out

returns wounded 

limping to us

all the clutter we say

reminds us of our parents.

we put in a rusted barrel.

i’m never sure if 

we can 

light it.

it goes anyway

or it rots from our indecision.

when it gets too bad,

i say honey, we can’t go on

like this.

like what?

like what?

she asks.

and so one room becomes 

hers

and then another

another

another

it’s too late when i 

say let’s save ourselves

let’s find the matches

bury our parents.