All the Leavings

For the last time, I watch the geese
arrive, sky white

digging in the roots
of river grass. The shadow

is in my body;
imprint

of heavy objects on carpet.
This smell is home.

Lives can be carried
in boxes,

small animals
panicked on the back seat.

Here are
all the leavings

of a life: child
lover mother

you don’t want to think of the ocean
they are filling; don’t want to go

down into that water
so you play with your phone.

It won’t grow back. This is grief.
I watch the river, where

one goose opens
her transient angels.