came back to a city that I call home
with a suitcase
containing the belongings of a dead person
and when I take out the content
everything of mine
smells like him
as if funerals didn’t matter
and I make room for a scent disembodied
the air coming into my room takes on his scent
and something moves
I spread out his clothes on my bed
and look at the lack of limbs, the lack of skin
the absence of his body
what he wore on photographs
inheritance on my bed
the belt with its added holes
the sleeves, the neckline, worn once or twice
the perfume he used
particles of him on the cloth
and I fold but cannot wash
that’s the point
I wear him out
on my skin
funerary washing machine
Croque-Melpomene 