Some mornings, I almost
get through fastening
my wristwatch before
I remember he is gone. 

I pad across our
lush orientals to the
window: grass brilliant
as he liked it and then,
behind, the towering

Here, on this island,
I live amongst his
things — snapshots
from safaris in gilded
frames, Japanese
silk fans, medals
from presidents. 
I consider leaving,
joining life
on the mainland of
gabbing people 
and supermarkets. 
But day after day,
I don’t — choosing instead
this foggy Western
silo, his shirts
still crisp in the closet.


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