Your Dresser

I move slowly through your dresser drawers.
I know you're not in there, but still...
I load black bags with protesting clothes.

Your T-shirts speak of where we met and
thoughts and scenes you loved so much
you held them on your skin.

Your sweaters say you suffered cold,
so they hugged you when you asked,
even if the thermometer lied.

Your bras cry “don’t blame us, we didn’t know!
We did the enviable job,
when she was safe and whole.”

And your blue silk nightgown whispers softly
of urgent hands and shimmering skin
that I remember very well.

As I pack them up, they call to me, 
and I cry back to them until I have
four full black bags beside one dresser, mostly empty.

How Are You?

Marathon to Hell