Which Bone

I placed each urn and box

on the white towel

you used for your last shower

before I lost you.

I used a flat paddle spoon

to scoop your ashes

into each one for

Your Father

Your Sister

Your Mother

And Me.

I grew up

going down

the Jersey Shore.

Spread out in a neon green and pink bikini,

I ran my fingers

through the pebbled sand,

over and over.

I unwrap your plastic bag

strangely fastened

with a green pipe cleaner,

which reminds me of the Hungry Caterpillar.

The undertaker did not know

your favorite color was green,

but this is not the right shade.

You called it Doctor Green

after the muted mint-colored scrubs

that they wore in the hospital

when you fell off the slide as a child.

The spinal tap,

the warm blanket

that we still have.

Was anyone in scrubs when they took you off the vent,

or just white, white coats?

I can’t remember.

I can’t remember

if you were wearing a bright white undershirt

or your new favorite orange tee

when they cut it with medical scissors

to shock you back on skin.

Sodium Bicarbonate

Calcium Chloride

Epinephrine

Epinephrine

Epinephrine

I stick my whole hand

into what is left of you.

Retrieve a shell-bone.

Put it in the tiniest box I have,

and then close the drawer.

Which bone is this?

Is it from your femur

from when you covered third?

Is it from your arm

that allowed

the ball to crack on the bat?

It is from your fingertip

tracing my cheekbone?

Which bone did you leave me with, my love?

Which bone?