Because the mortician was heavy-handed—
you have the palette of a sleeping nutcracker, the gelled
hair of a middle school boy—because the small
beach print of hula dancers
on your button down is you but not
the dead you in this casket—
because our parents are vacant
moons without a planet, holding paper coffee cups—
is it my job then to make this beautiful?
I don’t have it in me. My sorrow is ordinary.
I keep thinking about that izakaya we went to
on Okinawa where you made friends with a guy
singing Happy Birthday to himself, and we ate
cake with chopsticks.
Blackbird
An online journal of literature and the arts
close
Amber Adams
Amber Adams is the author of one poetry collection, Becoming Ribbons (Unicorn Press, 2022). Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry, Cincinnati Review, Poetry Northwest, Black Warrior Review, and elsewhere. She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Kyoto Writers Residency. She works as a counselor in private practice in Longmont, Colorado.
Footer
