Widow

by Stephanie Mendel

I keep pruners by the door
to cut flowers for your grave,
in your car a straw hat, a folding chair.
I find the missing Books on Tape,
a French franc under the driver’s seat.

I wear your T-shirts to bed,
your shirts with my jeans.
I avoid the dining room,
eat dinner standing at the sink.

I give away your size 13 ski boots,
your left-handed scissors, cling
to the idea that you believe in me
as I learn to relight the pilot,
drive alone at night.

I’m confused when your presence
seems to leave and return at will,
want to learn to manage grief
as easily as I peel this pear.