I put all my black
clothes into the bag.
I woke in the black
morning to go home.
It smelled like rain.
I felt sick on the plane, it was too early
to be alive. I died, just to know
what the fuss was.
at your house, and there
were all your things:
A maroon vase, blood-black. A half-gone
tube of toothpaste The little hairs
from your last shave Your Things
mouthed your name
when no one was looking
The hospital bed would not quiet.
We stood in doorways We yelled
at each other It became important
to know who felt
We painted on our black clothes
with roller brushes We
carried each other around
like sacks of cut up meat We couldn’t
I wanted to tell you