Nowadays inside our house time

happens in a circle, I read

the furniture like a book about a person, I

see him through every object he’s ever held,

read rugs and lamps and I

read his pillow once, saw who else

he might have dreamt of loving, he

deeply resented that but he'd

written all over the doorframe the

window glass banister curve hallway

stairwell cracked tile faucet

the house wiring too a ghost in its throat,

vents now humming loud in the night, the

ceiling fan in its circles so

tight I could no longer

ignore it.

It is near impossible

to live with a man and not

have him seep into every surface,

it is near impossible

to witness a marriage end and

not have it be the center from

which the

rest of your life spirals,

every fingerprint or dirty dish or

lightbulb blown out is a word in a

sentence that I could

construct about our time together, all

objects and events as clues that I

could use to reinvent us. They

began this doubling in vision once I saw

the first bits of unraveling, once

I understood that I could

not keep you

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