we shed dander

into cloth teeth and plastic tongues

that ate to fill their cushion

as comfort for the next collapsing aorta

and sometimes the proof of our body’s betrayal

drifted and built like snow

into the crevices of a rearranged alphabet

and dampened the sound of what little purpose remained

and we’d listen to someone talking

that sounded like a plate spinning in a dying microwave

or the reheating of something once recognizable

some days we’d feel the parts that left

the summer the oak died

the shattered ornaments that made our holidays

the year dad didn’t talk

a jaundiced television pastor

other days left without much ceremony

dying like seasonal menu items

after a few years
of friends dying
I asked if we had won the war
and he said “what war?”
and I said I didn’t know

or if we ever fought for anything