You should photograph all this:
the rectangular box of your closet.
Dresses vacant as ghosts,
limp sleeved blouses,
flattened skirts lined up like schoolgirls
at a dance.
Parka, pea coat,
a rain jacket: in case.
Hats stacked on a shelf.
A bridesmaid’s gown
inside a black Hefty bag.
A pile of shoes that you dig through
each morning, searching for mates.
And the scarf he bought you at a street fair,
tied to the light cord
to remind you with each silky tug.
Published in Mas Tequila Review