How to Be Human After Death

It used to be simpler to breathe before my mother in law died,
easier to remember to shut off a coffee pot. Recap the squeezed
toothpaste. Bring out the garbage bins to the curb on the correct days.
Sharpie the smiley face on a zip lock bag lunch.
Dry the dishes after they were washed. I have forgotten how
to totally be human, without guilt, without pause, without a ballad of
apologies when this simulation of multitasking leaves me unhinged.

The first thing  I said when my chest felt like tire treads were
using my body as a driveway was, I am sorry. I tell the urgent care nurse
this as she instructs me to stay still for the EKG machine, reminding me
to breathe. I hear shut up in her protocol. She isn’t a therapist,
just a woman, two hours left in her shift,
gauging the severity of this scan, discerning how much saving is
required.  Nothing is simple about breathing after the dead don’t
resurrect, no Jesus, no prank,  no suspenseful got you, a jump scare.

I keep waiting to adjust, not wanting to bend. I keep waiting
to get used to moving on, from a time my feet refuse to abandon.

The coffee pot bubbles, nothing is there but hot steam.
The residue of burnt stale coffee grinds once again reveals itself for the
third time this week. Pointing fingers at each other, indicting one another
as the party who forgot to shut off the coffee pot. Defensive that there are
such harder things that are worth forgetting.

I ask if this is you ?
If this is a sign ?
Are you trying to tell me something ?

I put my hand on the scolding pot. For a second it hurts. For a second breath
isn’t forced. For a second I remember being human often requires accepting  pain.

Bathing my brother in law

Red patched skin,
Hot water too sensitive on his shoulders,
I apologize, my small hands have never
fit in blue rubber gloves, scrubbed the torso
of another man in the shower.

Just last summer, I only knew him
clothed, bare chested on ocean shores,
feet naked in sandals.

Is this better ? temperature lightens,
now his spine props up into an exclamation
point, highlighted by his tippy toed stance,
how his fingers curl inward like backward Cs
whenever the water is welcomed.

Coursing his body with soap, attentively
scanning his thin bones for any form
of language, accepting this summer is
rebirth for both of us,

Am I rubbing you too strong ?
my hands are not his mothers,
His stiff shoulder blades clearly
voice that. This calloused grip
loosens up, his lips twitch.

I miss her too.

Frankie Soto is a 2x award winner of the Multicultural Poet of the year. He is the author of Petrichor which was announced as the winner for the 2025 North American Book Award in the category of Poetry. He was the 2024 New York Times Spotlight Author for his Petrichor & featured for the New York Times. His poetry has been featured by Fox, ABC News, and his poems “Spanglish” & “What if” are widely used for Freshman Orientations, Suicide Prevention Orgs & by professors/universities as part of their syllabus curriculum. Soto has been booked as a keynote speaker & performer at over 800+ Schools across the country.