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.
A yellow too pale for sun.

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

The jars are quiet now,
the canvas still white.
She sits inside the bristles,
waiting,
or maybe not.

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

—Augustus