Brushes

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

I haven’t touched them.
For twenty years my hands learned her needs,
lifting, washing, feeding, holding.
Her hands, trembling, knew where the color went.

I press one to my palm.
Flakes scatter.
She’s not here.

No one needs me.

Augustus Rivers