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he will leave them an old
beard comb saturated
with oils that smell of
wood and bergamot,
like something out of
moby dick
made ancient
in moderns times
through shear will
and nostalgia.

he will leave them
a life time of books
diagnosed with mold
and pregnant with
highlighted passages:
hope and clues
and all the anchors
he thought could
tie him down.
or were they wings
to be used for other reasons?

he will leave them his guitars
practised and well-worn,
short of accomplishment
or mastery, but brimming
with desire and expectations.

he will leave them a
box of photos
and old journals,
useless momentos
and keepsakes
of memories he cherished:
pictures of him in childhood.
and reckless youth.
a few of their grandparents
sepia memories of iran
a universe away.

he will leave them
.docs and .jpgs
and .movs
and half baked poems
which they can use
like fungal filaments
singular hyphae branches
strung together into
a mycelial network
to make sense of the
space he left behind.

he will leave them.