By Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach
My dog collects bones, buries them
in couch cushions as though in
the earth, returning to find them
whole and uneaten by worms.
My husband collects bruises, counts
how many rise above the skin, how wide
bass strings, forms them into hanging loops,
bronzing nooses. My father collects
sunflower seeds in his pockets
so he can chew and smile without having
in a cyberworld where he is warrior and lord
and matters. My mother, she collects
only the body. Grandfather collects replicas
of himself: a chess player, a head of hair,
with baking soda and a steady hand.
Grandmother collects children
inside her chest as though it were
the earth. She tells me not to look
to very little and the man who collected
millions of light bulbs
in a museum of glass, outlived
by his assembled light.