First, the pillows and pillowcases
tossed in the dryer with a washrag
soaked in vinegar. Then baseboards,
your hair (how I long to use the word tendrils)
matted against. Evidence. You were here.
Weeks ago, a light burned out,
and when I unscrewed it, the bulb
broke in my hand, the metal base still
lodged in its socket. The lint trap, the slow
drain, the crawlspace filled with chatter:
I have been doing with minutes
piecemeal, caterwauls, the juxtapose
at the end of the world. It is all
I want out of life to pry that crayon
from between the very small gap
between the floorboards that join
the kitchen and the living room.
And honey, there's you. Except
you're done. I remember how easily
I came in your hands, a slew
of hide and walnuts. Like a good
long lunch. Like the end.