a year before my mother was even born,
way before you or I were born or met.
It was a kidney. Now you're dead.
They donated your organs.
Which ones? How many? Who got them?
Even dead, is your marrow walking around?
deep in their bones, some stranger don't know
how their blood forms in a core that hates me.
Is someone just getting groceries reading labels
with corneas which stared me down at my worst,
muckiest of the muck in your shoe tred?
Someone taking in the fresh air with lungs
which stole hits off my cigarette and yelled at me?
Where is your liver, your heart, that pancreas, skin,
all the things that seemed to make up "you"
that you that I loved, the you I grew to resent,
the you I tried to leave, the you I finally left,
and the you I hoped would finally leave me
once you were cold dead in the ground.
But like all things in our marriage, its end,
no one got what they wanted or promised.
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