Things I Left You

A blue blanket embroidered with bears. A burnished stone. The bones of our family dog. A plastic bottle, a patchwork doll, zwieback crackers, baby shoes. A bracelet carved with your name. My nursing blouse stained with milk. The cotton sheets I lay in with your father. The sound of his mumbled voice at night. My cutting cries, the broken plates, the night-light shaped like a handful of balloons. The ripped comforter, the ruined walls, the two-dollar lottery ticket. The handmade birthday card, the bar of almond soap, the rope he chose to hang himself with. The glimmer of two candles on a cake. My bills: gas, sewage, electric—late. The rain-licked streets I walked along in search of money. My voice this morning telling you, Wake up, it’s time to go. The glow of my headlights painting snow. Your ruffled, pink jumper. Your new mother, her young hands clutching you. The air, free of my soured perfume. A silent cradle. An empty room.