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.