Burn Barrel
The house was cleaned by neighbor girls,
who pulled out the couch as if vacuuming
unused corners of the room could help.
Everyone’s gone home, carrying their empty
lasagna pans, pie tins, Tupperware. We froze
what we could, divided out the rest to aunts
and cousins. I’m here to gather trash,
sort recycling, toss wilted flowers to the cows.
I drag the paper bin across the yard
to the burn barrel—rusted, stained with use—
and return to ask where Grandfather kept
the matches. Grandmother’s in the bedroom,
sorting clothes: some for charity, some so ratty
that she sighs and says I suppose these
must be burned. I box and haul it all, piling
in the yard shirts and pants that smell of him.
The barrel isn’t large enough for this.