Soon she will be no more than a passing thought,

a pang, a timpani of wind in the chimes, bent spoons

hung from the eaves on a first night in a new house

on a street where no dog sings, no cat visits

a neighbor cat in the middle of the street, winding

and rubbing fur against fur, throwing sparks.



Her atoms are out there, circling the earth, minus

her happiness, minus her grief, only her body’s

water atoms, her hair and bone and teeth atoms,

her fleshy atoms, her boozy atoms, her saltines

and cheese and tea, but not her piano concerto

atoms, her atoms of laughter and cruelty, her atoms

of lies and lilies along the driveway and her slippers,

Lord her slippers, where are they now?