ARTIFACTS by Joan Glass

You keep a lock of his hair
in a box with photos and
the obituary, several
yellowing sympathy cards.
The lock of hair, it still
smells like him, you say.

How long, I wonder,
before that scent vanishes?
Do you only imagine it, even now?

I cannot bring myself to make
baby books for my children.
I did not save their teeth
in a silver box or bronze
their first pair of shoes.

Each day ends
and I am grateful.
For at night
I bury my face
in their sweet,
damp heads of hair,

cursing the idea
of artifacts.

JOAN GLASS lives and writes in coastal Connecticut. Her work has been published in Harpweaver, Conspire, Emprise Review, FZQ, Thunder Sandwich, Kota Press, Literal Latte, Precipice, and Smith College Alumnae Quarterly. She was recently accepted into the Fairfield University MFA program in Creative Writing.

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