nothing hurts me more than seeing your face.
I have to look away from your photographs
they’re the only nondusty ones on the shelf
your momma makes sure of that. 

I look after your momma like you asked me to
but most days all she can manage is a few mumbled words
she’s not here, I don’t think. I think she’s with you,
in old memories played on loop

I can hardly blame her.
I hope I never have to know what it’s like
to bury our child.