Nesting in my nest, she slept on my side
of the double bed, stacked the book—my books
she was reading on my nightstand.
In the closet, her dresses pressed
against my husband’s pants.
These I boxed up for her mother,
with the baby’s toys.
I tossed her blue toothbrush
and her tortoiseshell comb in the trash.
Police took away a rug. My two best knives.
But the kitchen still smells of her spices —
her cinnamon, curry, cloves.
The house an aromatic maze of incense and sachet.
Almost every day now something of hers
turns up. The way La Brea tar pits
keep disgorging ancient bones squeezing them
through the oily black muscles of earth
to the surface.
A yoga mat.
I don’t need it. I already have my own.
Prayer beads. A strapless bra.
A gold ring. It’s pretty.
It fits my pinkie.
I wash my face with her special soap,
a cool oval of white clay,
one thick black hair still glued to it.
And is it wrong to brew her herbal teas, try her
aromatherapies, her homeopathic cures,
the Rescue Remedy she’d told me
really worked? The amber bottle’s full.
Why waste it? So I deposit
four bitter drops on my own tongue.
Leave a Reply