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 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