packing – december 2018

The house sells in a weekend,
as if wanting to belong
to someone else
all along.

I divide up china, cutlery,
sheets, blankets, furniture,
print my name (without his),
his name (without mine),
on large cardboard boxes.

I fold the yellow and blue striped bedcover
we bought together on a bright sunny day in Mexico,
and wonder who else
will one day pull it up over his bed.

With each item placed in his boxes,
I feel oddly unanchored, fading
like a phantom transmuting into ether.

I pull on boots, head out to the bare maple in the yard,
also shed of its finery,
put my palms on its rough bark,
say a prayer for us both

to get through these gloomy days,
watch the neighbour stack firewood
for a winter I will not see here.