Absence

The night you went away, my sister climbed into your closet and pushed your clothes against her face.

She doesn’t want to talk about it.

One month later she asks me how long human scent can be collected in fabric.  
She found you at the bottom of a hat, yesterday. “There he is,” She said, 
“Hi baby.”

The last time I tried to escape from my body, 
I tumbled back down into a hang over and a cup of cold black coffee.

These days

I am surprised at how lazy I am.

 We see you in the form of a hummingbird, or a gust of wind, or a good good joke.

 And that’s nice and everything, but it’s not the same.

This grief has held me captive.

Bound, gagged, and tied.

The worst part is I find no desire to escape.

I lay limp in its arms

like a little girl

fallen in love with her kidnapper.

Our bodies are all we have left.

My sister and mom paint watercolor flowers.

We speak of death like it is an irrational number 
We only know what it was by the hole that it left.