The movers came, and took
her bed, table, everything,
until the house was empty.
at night, in a dark dress,
and so she was hit. A driver who had seen it
said that he thought someone
threw a doll up in the air. I found some smaller things
that had been overlooked.
A fish made of wood. A bell, perhaps for calling
a cat. Every night
one comes around and mourns. A hidden drawer with thread
and needle, thimble, things
as hidden as a heart. She let the house run down,
the garden be overgrown,
lost in her arcane studies. They had to do with the eye
of a fish that she had found
somewhere in Mexico. A neighbor disconnected
the refrigerator, but did not
think to empty it. Fishes stink. I open the door of a cabinet,
and forget to close it again—
whack! The side of my head. “Just to remind you,”
she whispers, “it’s my house.”
The carpenters are hard at work— I need more space. She stands
watching a while, and leaves.
She’ll have the run of it still.
