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	    http://www.albany.edu/offcourse 
         http://offcourse.org
         ISSN 1556-4975
		
Published by Ricardo and Isabel Nirenberg since 1998
Jim's brother died last week. 
          We went to the funeral home 
          to pick up the ashes. "Why 
          is it called a funeral home?" 
          I said. "Is it the home of fuckin 
          funerals?" "Could be. Maybe 
          it's more like our home away 
          from home," Jim said. "It's heavy," 
          said the funeral director handing 
          Jim a shopping bag with the urn 
          with the ashes with his brother 
          without a home. "He ain't heavy," 
          Jim said. "He's my brother." 
          The funeral director didn't laugh. 
  "Animals don't go to funeral homes 
          when they die," I said. "Right," 
          Jim said. "The whole fuckin earth 
          is their home." "So what are 
          you going to do with Mike's ashes?" 
          I said. "Spill them somewhere nice," 
          Jim said. "Around here? I thought 
          he didn't come from around here," 
          I said. "He didn't. Maybe I should send 
          it up to his wife in New Hampshire. 
          She ought to decide what to do," Jim said. 
  "I guess so," I said. "But you have 
          the ashes. Don't you think you ought 
          to decide what to do with them?" 
  "Maybe. After all, I knew him longer 
          than his wife did," Jim said. "Let's go 
          find some place nice." "That place on 
          the Delaware?" I said. "Yeah, Jim said. 
  "Where we saw the three girls in the raft 
          take off their tops and wave at us?" I said. 
  "Yeah, that's the one," Jim said. "That place." 
Awake from a nap in the back, 
          I blink. 
I see the sun hanging upside down from the clouds. 
          I blink. 
I see a goldfinch hanging upside down from the birdfeeder. 
          I blink 
I see a foolish old poet hanging upside down from the world. 
          I blink. 
I blink. 
          I blink. 
I found a pencil on the road. 
          It looked like it had been whittled 
          to expose the lead, not sharpened 
          with a sharpener. Used for about 
          two inches of writing -- what? 
          math homework?  doodles? poems?   
          The eraser was rubbed down to gone, 
          so it must have been poems. I took 
          it home, wrote this with it, broke it 
          in half, and threw it out. 
Did Moses' Midianite wife, 
          Zipporah, really use all 
this perfume, all this lip liner, 
          all this eye shadow, 
all this eye liner, 
          all this lash lengthener, 
all this body lotion, 
          all this face powder, 
so much all this that if 
          I weren't already seventy-two 
and thereby have no reason to, 
          I swear I'd swear off sex? 
  
        
        
J.R. Solonche is the author of Beautiful Day (Deerbrook Editions), Won't Be Long (Deerbrook Editions),  Heart's Content (chapbook from Five Oaks Press), Invisible (nominated for the Pulitzer Prize by Five Oaks Press), The Black Birch (Kelsay Books), I, Emily Dickinson & Other Found Poems (Deerbrook Editions), In Short Order (Kelsay Books), Tomorrow, Today & Yesterday (Deerbrook Editions),  If You Should See Me Walking on the Road (forthcoming in July 2019 from Kelsay Books), and coauthor of Peach Girl: Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books). He lives in the Hudson Valley.