Start Again

Every day, and in so many ways

I cried yesterday, wrapping your water glasses 
in those flowered cloth napkins, 
tucking them into a box with your forks and knives.
I had to ask you which spoons were yours, so thoroughly had I believed
in the tapestry we were weaving.
You filled your car three times, poured the contents into your new start.

It’s sunrise now, and I’m alone in my bed, noticing.
The sound of the heat crinkling as it wakes up, 
the moan of a truck engine rumbling by. I hear 
my own breathing, no birds yet. 
I taste the funk inside my mouth. 
I feel gentle flannel sheets, my mattress holding the weight 
of my body, I feel 
the ache in my left hip, and cool air on my bare skin where 
my shoulder escaped the comforter.
I feel the strong muscle of my heart.

I see faint pink light in the morning sky, beyond the reaching 
fingers of winter branches. I  see my cup of tea, half finished, because I fell asleep. 
I see a blank wall where your dresser stood, dust on the floor 
smothering a small gold hoop, yours.
I see my hands writing meaning into grief. 
I see possibility. Tomorrow, 
I’ll sweep, I’ll paint.

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