father, your old little death
your star children centuplets
I couldn't watch you pass
but I could find you

cluster bombs that won't set off
shrapnel in the still-composed
can the waiting weigh in
on a blast

splitting just to spawn anew
your star children are much like you
your cameras, your clothes
my recollection

a mitosis of symbols starts
every time I break to parts
the way I've really felt
about your passing

my thoughts, my things, my everywhere
more present now than you were then
the things we leave are unseen
'til they're not

father, I don't want your death
to be what I must carry when
I choose to tell stories of my own