GENESIS 3:19

His ashes were split
between myself and his dad.
Two urns. Two shrines 
in two different states.
Two parents who made him 
under an abnormally large Christmas tree
one December evening in 2004.
I baked in me what is now ash, 
brought forth life and limb 
and raised holy hell on his behalf 
to make sure he had what he needed
from small town schools and rural doctors.
Through all of those years
—only 18 in all—
he grew tall, 
a bright wild Cosmos with one bloom
and so many more on the brink,
the longest fingers I’ve ever seen
and size 15 feet. He only had
my toes and eyebrows, from what we
could tell when we looked together
in the mirror, his blue-green eyes 
dancing—always dancing—and asking
with a chuckle if I was sure he was mine.
I’d hear that chuckle morph 
into a booming laugh in his room
late, probably too late, at night.
Maybe it was a meme, 
maybe it was on Discord with friends,
I never knew why we could hear him
so exclamatory, but I knew
that he was happy.
Half of him sits in a lapis lazuli urn
on his desk now, just above his 
hand-carved initials,
where his keyboard once sat.

I wish I knew which half 
I have of him. I hope
I at least have those long fingers.

Jessica Siobhan Frank is a poet from the Chicago suburbs. Her work has appeared in such publications as Crab Orchard Review, Ninth Letter (online), Talon Review, and several other publications. She was a Best of the Net nominee in 2018 and a Public Poetry Wicked Wit finalist in 2020. A very recent empty-nester, she lives suburbs with her husband and some assorted cats.