Dead Cousin

Every day I bring to mind
the face of my dead cousin—
I try to remember him,
his skin was soft.
He smelled nice and
made those little sounds
that melted my heart
until
one day he was no longer there.

Faintly, I still hear his cries,
footsteps in the hall,
the rumble of an engine, and
the next day, all I saw
were tyre tracks in the mud
left by the rain.

I think of that small, round face,
the nose like a socket,
a mouth as if always laughing,
though everyone said that wasn’t possible.
He amazed me when he stood
and wobbled around
on his crooked little legs.

On the day he was still here,
the talk was of
cheeks, hams,
mince and chops.
We played together, and now
my cousin is the bread on the table
for man and beast.

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