from a year ago, because I think of her all the time

Golden & bearing some French name,

they’re sitting on the shelves

in the bathroom, unused. Waiting.

We pack your room into foul brown boxes.

I want to burn your sweaters.

I want to pull them down over my shoulders.

All of it feels so ordinary- death. My pain.

Even those manufactured scents, your fear of their

discontinuation rather than what ended first.

This morning, a women in the grocery store

walked past & it was you -the smell

of imagined Parisian parlors, afternoon rose gardens.

I wanted her skin to fall

from her bones.

I wanted to curl inside her arms.

When I was young, you’d visit

& I’d cry as soon as you left.

Now I’m seven again.

I’m sitting in the guest closet, my head against

forgotten coats. Arm in arm, we’re exploring Arc de Triomphe

& I don’t have to miss you so much.