The night you went away
my sister climbed into your closet
and pushed your clothes against her face.
She doesn't want to talk about it.
A month later she asks me how long human scent
can be collected in fabric.
She found you at the bottom of a hat yesterday.
"There he is." She said.
"Hi baby."
The last time I tried to escape from my body
I tumbled back down into a hangover
and a cup of cold black coffee.
These days,
I'm surprised at how lazy I am.
We see you in the form of a humming bird
or a song or a good good joke and that's nice and everything
but it's not the same.
This grief has held me captive.
Bound, gagged, and tied
the worst part is I find no desire to escape
like a little girl
fallen in love with her kidnapper.
Our bodies are all we have left.
Every morning my mom and sister wake up and paint watercolor flowers.
We speak of death
like it is an irrational number.
We only know what it was by the hole that it left.