Mirroring
I imagine you found me beyond your frame,
bustling around in our closet, sorting clothes—
scarves that needed hanging,
a wedding dress to be boxed, sweaters
that warmed the coldest ocean chill.
I didn't see you in the luminescence
or bright reflection of daylight,
not wanting to stop my own folding, packing,
taping shut of intimate things. Only when I
paused to sip your favorite tea, caught
the scent of you in the bedroom, did I sense
you watching, reminding me how creases
fold themselves into familiar patterns,
how garments must be draped
as if they're to be worn again, even
if by someone else. No boxes can hold
all these notions, no container sturdy enough
to carry absence. Cardboard and plastic
seem too inconsequential to care
for all that adorned you. As I dim the lights,
sit near you on the loveseat, I notice
the standing mirror has turned slightly
toward me, and in the closet,
one carton re-opened.
