Sunday

I.
And I had never cared
for lavender. Had never wanted myself
to smell of cleanliness, of a white sheet

folded just so. Had never wanted
myself.

II.
Bran muffins, granite countertop.
Shelves full of books dog-eared, gray.
A cream-colored guitar.

III.
To take count:
a stock of breaths, not in nor out,
but every sixty husky seconds.
Still. And the same. Yet, still...

IV.
And when my hands were idle,
I climbed in beside her.
And then we were two bodies
supporting a body. 
Not a trinity.
Not as one.

V.
Outside this open window
was once a greenbelt, she said.
Look down there. That birch.
Once, there were others.

VI.
I asked what I could take.
What could be carried home,
as if somehow my back, my shoulders
could bear it.
I did not expect to hear
ashes.

VII.
A mother enters, and is asked
to trade velveteen blanket
for the cool, clean, white sheet
she carries. 
First, she must sort it from the gray
t-shirt, some socks. 
From under one pair of navy 
boxer shorts. And these
she places, folded,
in the dresser drawer.

VII.
And I had never cared
for lavender, save for now, on her wrists
and his temples.
Save for the scent of it filling
the bed on the white sheet.
Had never cared,
myself, to witness.

She says, ashes. 
A siren begins on the street below.