I look into a bowl of white noise. Ezekiel on a field of bones. I dip in my hands. I drink death from a skull's empty sockets. The dust of it covers my hands.
I think now of that evening. You shelled beans into a silver bowl. You looked up at me. Your eyes glistened with laughing or memory. I have never known which.
I know I will bury you. My hands will touch your eyelids. I will stand above you as I sift dirt on your grave. I will wrap your name in mine.