The front hall is quiet, no
sound like before, like
I remember;
the bedroom is a
cavern of
small shadows falling
across lost memories
of her…
the boxes stacked
sat
cluttering
the hallway aren’t
aligned, no
corner to corner, no
order;
she would frown
when that happened, when
faced
with disorder, that
thing
with one eyebrow
pulled down
the other
undecided…
her in boxes now, all of
what is left
all
that there is, but
nothing from the hospital
that was never
her
and nothing
from before
me;
a me that no longer
exists…
I am only what I am
after
her
now
her in boxes, unaligned,
can’t
take that
away.