Choosing Your Clothes

The day you died, the sun came
up (as expected), and I slept later
than usual. When Katherine called
to tell me you were beating
the windows out of Sammie's do-it-all
trailer, I told her to relax. There
were things about you she could not
know, I said.

I could not know the next morning
would find me pulling your husband
away from your body, dead now
at least eight hours.

Death is not lovely like the trailing
ivy that covered the chain-linked fence
that fenced you in. Not easy and light
like the breeze that lifted your hair
and let it fall softly across your face
that last day in May when you told
me you were better.

I saw a picture of you in the house
when we were trying to find something
to bury you in. You were young and small
and smiling. Katherine and Glinda kept looking
for the three piece outfit, the one with black
slacks and a vest and a long-sleeved white
silk shirt. The outfit they felt best represented
the you who would be on display for friends
and family.

I was overcome and unable to breathe
in that small house, utilities turned off,
boxes all over the floors. And I felt
I was suffocating in the slow way a person
does when they think nothing they do
makes a difference.

I excused myself from that room and your life.

Today, I have only this: a purse
with five pairs of sunglasses; a memo
to yourself (with a call list that included
me); some small change, a few ink pens
and your address book.

I have thought about calling the numbers
in your book so many times since that day,
but always reason wins out and I decide
there is no point in calling.

I still can't bring myself to take flowers
to your stone. To make more of you in death
than I could in life.

************************************************


Juat looking over some old poems. I'd like to do
something with this one.

Bad day today.

Wish I didn't have class tonight.