Your memory greets me
like a sun flitting between the trees;
it is an overcast day and
you do not know me.
The clouds linger where I disappear
on the hospital bed, thinking of how
you sleep with your casket.
Couldn’t they at least buy a better bed?
I think of how one bed begs more remembrance
than the line of pictures hung up on its curtain.
(I feel as if we keep playing ghosts in the bedsheets,
clothespins the only things holding them
up in your head; I watch them come loose over
and over again).
I bring your laundry, and the sun doesn’t shine
for your favorite blouse. I don’t tell you:
“you used to wear pink lipstick with this one,”
or how you always paired it with denim jackets.
Instead, I stuff it in the closet and hand you
the quilt when you remark on the chill.
I don’t let you see my hands shake
when I remember your ring in my pocket,
your figurines in my car, your house freshly turned over,
a new name in the dirt; I kiss the bruises
on your wr