Winter

The soap you said reminded you of home. 

I wash my body with it because it is haunted. 

I don’t sense death, only a thing unlived.

Downstairs, outside, shadows are trapped 

in the garden between the azaleas and the brick wall. 

Winter makes everything a weed. 

We were together when you were gone.

We drove to the fair in the city that day.

We held hands while their mirrors disfigured us. 

For a split-second we never left.

The sun, that morning, on the snow,

was at home.

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