There are several ways to deal
with things like this. First of all
I turned his absence into a dress
of crushed peach, wore his sailing shade
against my hip. These sad impressions
of the body, silk islands.
I avoided the danger, flesh-coloured
skirts on the thigh. There are
other things I could do.
I could cradle his heap of clothes
like a soft baby. I could drop them
down the stairs, arrange them
into his shape. Kid myself
even though he’s dissolved into must
and collar-starch. Leave his scent
forever on the staircase.
I could take off my shoes in the evening
and bring his dead shirts to my nose.
Feel the weight of the world in my arms.
In the nights, under moon-cracked skies
I picture him somewhere below her,
have him lit like a searchlight. I think of him
as I cling like a lizard,
skirts screwed in someone’s fist.
I think I can do this now.
I don’t even notice the door click shut,
his wrecked and shaking return.