Lift his body, the paramedics
tell me. Hold him in your
clay arms. When the firemen come, go
sit among the planter pots, do not remember
the shape of that char-black body bag nor the walls
of that lime-white crematorium. Instead

remember the stories he told you, his
humid jungle and 12-count brotherhood.
Tell yourself his life, his stinking heat and spit-roast fires,
and know them as your own. Know his life as a fable,
know it as a code.

Attempt confession into a microphone. Stare up
into stage lights and let strangers in
on your stories, his secrets: your inability to
grieve, his purple-red bile you caught
in a 32-ounce takeout cup. Look up, now. They are
clapping for you. Wipe your tears, then,
bow. Leave the stage and
fade into the driver’s seat.

Once home, go sit before the fireplace and
wrap your kindling knees in your arms. Place
logs in the fire. Hear them
sear, blacken, burn. Burn
yourself. Attempt absolution,

become ash. Pour water into your own ashes and
knead yourself into clay. Fashion a body,
find his bed. Run your finger along the bedframe. Here,

you gathered his knees as your father picked up his shoulders. Here,
you watched his hips fold, buckle, and fail. Here, you spread
slag and slip and ash across the bedsheets. Here, you lay down
his clay arms and sit by his bedside. There,
tell yourself jokes. Keep the old man company.

Callisto Lim kneads our minds from afar, and now, the Nassau Weekly needs a Ghost-style pottery lesson.