you remember when you were young, when you were eight nine ten eleven, when your mother would take you to the salon, to the little room where they would lay you down and strip you bare spread wax on your body like it was honey.
and after he killed himself
you don’t shower for five days,
change your clothes, or brush your hair.
you want to sit shiva, but you’re not jewish,
don’t know what it means.
but for you, grief alone
doesn’t seem like a good enough excuse.