LAST TIME I SAW HER WAS A YEAR AGO
There's a snake's head on my desk,
pen and paper, a picture of my
wife after the divorce.
There's the Essential Kierkegaard
and a first edition Mein Kampf,
and every poem Mallarmé ever wrote.
There's also a coin from Rome,
a letter from an ex-lover,
a rusty house key and a dog's collar.
There's a pistol and a noose,
a broken stone from Nebraska,
a dried leaf from Vermont.
There's The Collected Letters of Ronald Reagan,
a stack of bills five years old,
there's an oyster shell and a whale's tooth.
There's yesterday's newspaper,
a greasy map and an arrow,
a glass dove and a Star of David.
There's an ocean and a wave,
a branch from Beirut,
a fallen star from Damascus.
LEAVING
The house has never
been so dark.
I don't turn the lights on,
I can't take the light.
A pair of faded stilettos
in the closet,
a strand of brown
hair in the bathroom sink.
Your favorite white cup,
still on the counter.
The house has always
been this bright.
I can't stand the sun;
the windows are nailed up
with old wood.
I keep hearing whispers, Cora.
The back door won't go silent,
and pigeons fly
in and out of the eaves
as if nothing has happened.
