
Twiglets “A twiglet’s aim is to “prompt” a thought. If something comes to mind, write.”
In tiny brass urns,
a smidgen of him,
to be cherished after
the casting was done
was given to the widow
and each adult child.
She kept it on a bookshelf
that she left behind
when she moved out
even though I didn’t know
what to do with them.
She didn’t care, she said.
I kept them out of respect,
not for him, but as a sense
of duty to being human.
He had not been a good man
and I was tired of the reminder
of my disillusioned sister.
He rests (perhaps) at the bottom
of New River on a bed of detritus
safe in his brass container.
In the cool waters he’ll have
time to remember his sins
stuck like a tuna in a can.