GRIEF Poem: In the Barn, by Benjamin Skipworth

I count straw to pass time, long then short.
Each with pumpkin-microfibers;
the sting retains a thin skin on my fingers,
your eyes scanning my scalp.

The windows, open, like how you left
them, head out as a dog in a hot-box car.
I watch behind my eyes, a film reel of faces
and a kaleidoscope of you.

I knew you like I knew the door frame notches,
where we would place the knife—
nearly grazing a few precious hairs I know count too—
the height of your last and the blade’s sudden stillness.

Familiar fumes in the air placate me;
the stiff odor of tractor engines seeming to waft
down a river of dirt, bloodhounding your old boot tracks.
The wind carries itself.

Mud reflecting my face, connected
by a string of droplets, hanging like crystal beads
on a friendship bracelet, suspends salt and blends
with the zephyr, swirling up to heaven.