Minutia Of Grief Poem by Jaye Renke Vogts

I was only looking for paperclips.
I went searching in the box of rubble
saved during the effigies.
There they were!
The box of 100 jumbo silverettes made in the good ol' USA, by Acco, circa 1984.
But I couldn't just leave then…
I had to dig.
I had to put my nose in and smell our basement.
Smell your soft sweatered shoulder and cinnamon breath.
Smell the worn-in leather of Dad's glove.
See us, in the front yard tossing the ball,
learning how to catch like a boy.
I had to touch the timeless looping of
Your scrawl, knowing that I would know it
anywhere and always.
1996 you marked at the end of my poems,
letters, and musings,
as if you would be the one, who later,
might need reminding of the dates;
in which I was your talented daughter
not the slovenly drunkard she turned into;
pouring over a Rubbermaid tote
crying into the reverie of things I am never allowed to have again.