My poem, My Dead, needs another stanza. So, baby brother, you are now a new, very sharp stone in my pocket too. Thanks for walking with me.

I call them my dead,
not that they don’t still
belong to themselves
or to the universe now,
but they are mine
because when they lived
we walked together

& now I carry memories
from each of them
like small stones in my pocket
worn smooth by my fingers:

This stone is my father,
who died when I was on the cusp
of knowing him better.
Our eyes are identical;
neither brown nor green,
but happy shifting between the 2 colors.

This is my grandmother,
who taught  me herb-lore
& when to plant things
& how to write
an S.

This stone is hard
& still sharp on the edges,
and is my sister
who died too young:
we should still be arguing
& raising children together.

This stone,
deepest in my pocket
& warmed by body heat
represents my mother,
who we lost long before
her heart stopped beating,
& who I remember most
because at the end
I was her memory.

This stone,
newly cut
hard & bright as fresh loss
is my brother’s.
I have no words for him yet
beyond deep mourning–
murmuring his name under my breath
like a mantra
that brings no peace.

These are my dead
& I remember them
with joy, with tears;
with peace,
& with some anger.

If I could,
I would gather their bones
in 1 place
& pour wine
over the earth
that holds them;

not in worship
or fear, simply
in a gesture
of thanks-giving.