I shake from time to time

With the pincers of memory I pluck 
the scene of his death from my eyes,
and rehome it in a snowglobe 
I shake from time to time. 
Death is a curious thing,

and stubborn. 

I hesitate to ponder the contours 
of his dry-skinned limbs as they searched 
flailing, failing to secure an exit route 
from the flood of light that burned life from his body, 
and the wet eyes that begged for his wife
to follow, and the hardness of linoleum at nighttime – 

    but do anyway.

There is a certain solace in watching 
it all drift back into place.

for Karen and Jerry