Counting the damage

What if I forget him?

What if he blurs like a good vacation?

Already I have to concentrate, piece him 

together as a puzzle, matching the bits into familiar

body parts--his swollen knee, wrist with
fancy watch, lips pinched into a trumpet.   

What if the pieces tatter? 

Stop fitting? 

What if one day I can’t recall 

but a moment? 

Already a hush settles into every crevice 

as if stillness were normal in our house.

Already I have grown used to having 
no one in love with me.

I frame photos with the breath of panic,

mail his face to everyone.

I will not count his memory

among all the other damage.

Threads

Widows:

Don’t turn away 

from the mirror. 

Keep looking 

at what you’re made of--cloth strong 

enough to be a flag and don’t forget 

he loved you 

for your spine 

that’s not crocheted but woven 

tight as burlap

and because your heart is spun 

of silk, 

its long threads pulled 

from countless other acts 

of metamorphoses.