Brushes

The brushes stiffen in a jar by the sink,
their tips caked with the last things she ever made.
Yellow Ochre, quinacridone anything,
a green she called moss.

I haven’t touched them.
For twenty years, my hands knew—
lifting, washing, feeding, holding—
and hers, trembling,
knew where the color went.

The jars are empty now,
the canvas half-finished.
The bristles stiffen.
I do too.

I press one to my palm—
the flakes scatter.
It doesn’t feel like her.
Not yet.

—Augustus Rivers