LatinosUSA

A thin sliver of soap,

translucent, glycerine,

slashes my skin.

I hold it before my eyes.

It filters the toilet, washroom

into a slow sunset scene.

Blood and drawing structures-

where have I seen it before?

I drop to my knees as if

memories is a thick mist puddled

near the floor. My father died

slipping on his soap.

We bled a cloud so that the journey

to the cremation pier be comfortable

for us, the living. I washed the blood away 

from my hands and threw away the shirt.