Last night twilight was a blue sheet

lining the printed curtains—

edging up.

This morning I fold

the sheets you and she slept in.

I know the red cotton

checked with white, our picnic cloth,

was what you laid down on the rug

in the living room, sharing out

spoonfuls of noodles, salads and meat

in small pieces, rolled in oil.

It is bright beyond the drawn 

curtains. I fold carefully

pressing out wrinkles, smoothing the cloth.

I want to beat out the sheets

in the hot sun, on sloping rocks,

spread them over the springy stems—

the mattress of the grass—

so their stains bleach an impossible white.

Instead I appear in the yard outside,

bed, drape, and clip,

appearing and reappearing, eclipsed,

hiding what is bundled, shredded, knotted, tied.

Inside I rip and rip

and will mend each time,

sewing into myself

the cat whose chest is crushed

crossing the road in the rain,

the snake, arching,

sliced by the blades of the mower.

I will quilt in

that look in your eyes,

dark and chipped,

as you back away—

pulling against the bridle.