- Non-Erotic Poetry
- The Sorting
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TThe watcher woke when you walked in.
Both older now – we rarely talk.
You’re a stranger to me, and
there’s a reason for that.
We sorted through mom’s things:
“You take this.”
“I’ll keep that.”
“She’d want you to have those.”
Everything of use was parceled out
and all the memories handled.
A wounding ache seeps from
these worn objects and so
we both depart without really speaking.
A young girl in a stained dress
lies in the crawl space
beneath the old house.
Her eyes are open and
she remembers what we did.
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