Brother when I die
my ashes go to your house.
 
Confusion where to scatter
is all I’ll leave.
 
We are here
because our mother was here.
 
That was the body.
When I take mine off
 
what will be left?
A thing with no pockets
 
marked
and empty of its glue.
 
Brother when I die
I stay
 
and the world moves away
light as a bee from a flower
 
leaving new words
bit carefully deep.
 
I will touch my marked-up
self
 
and say look
at all these names.