the slip

these first hours of grief
fire hot like a kiln

hardening this soft thing
we’ve turned
between us over time

you have told me your stories
and I have told you mine


savor it was his advice

when like a poker
pulled from the fire
the grief is still
too hot to look at

savor it now
because it grows dim

as time exerts its
cold distance

tell the stories
recall the smile
replay his voice
while you can still
hear its music

play Sweet Caroline and cry

fire these memories
in this brief insufferable
heat

bake them into pottery
fierce enough to hold
what remains
once you lower him into
the clay