Comments 2

The brown ones, with red trim


Show me the place where
I should keep your shoes
After you are gathered

By earth. The closet
Will not do. It is too full
Of dirt and litter and cat hair–

I can’t remember the last time
I swept. It was definitely before
You left without saying goodbye–

After that
Time gets tricky like a mind full
Of smoke or drink and it’s hard to see moments

As solid things
That ever happened–what happened
To those feet that I still can’t sleep without

Around me? What color
Did death paint them? Is it true
That your nails still grow, now unbitten

By your teeth and unable
To scratch that itch you can’t reach
When breathing is something of the past?

Was your spirit laughing as it watched
My mother clean our house? Were you sitting
In your chair listening to me shout when she reached

For you shoes?
Was it you who made me
Put down the knife we kept

Inside a bookcase in the kitchen?

This entry was posted in: poetry


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