M-A-T-H
She said she’d come back if she could, to tell me. To say what it was like, but she didn’t.
Snow blows off the roof in ghost shapes. Inside, the half-done puzzle, a cliché, hogs the table. Hundreds of tiny blue pieces for sky. Green for the hill, gray for clouds. In another pile, some of the shirts we wore. A few remarks that marked me. The mail comes: catalogs, bills. I begin looking at mattress covers, to calm myself. I count in my own way.
