The thing about loss
is that it isn’t immediate
you don’t feel it until you reach for her
only to find that side of the bed cold and empty.
it’s when you’re at the grocery store
And a freight train hits you with a memory of shopping for celery
ripping the stitches open again
Sometimes you replay the timbre of her loud, gravelly voice
afraid of forgetting the exact way she called your name
it’s when you smell her perfume
wear her pearls or use her Clinique lipstick
and when you see her deep red jacket
hand searching
fingers brushing
against the cold, metal dragonfly broach
tucked inside the pockets of time
where it hurts the most
The truth is that the broach is ugly, crass
her final years were filled with constant anguish
she could no longer clip her nails or fold her clothes
you try to forget the way she forgot
but the dragonfly broach won’t let you
so you pin it to your shoulder
and go outside
it really is a hideous old thing
