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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