161.

what do you make room for
shuffling shoe boxes bare-handed beneath your bed
knees pressed into gray grit, the five-year rubble accumulated there
and cheeks red with the sweat of rearranging, what is it
that you make room for

is it the set of bruised voicemails still squatting
in your phone, the ones where his voice lied and sounded velvety
instead of thumbtack sharp, will you keep them
tucked into some box spring corner, vaguely under your waist

or is it the blankets we clothed our couch in,
cat hairs collected and every ruddy wine stain on our carpet
and two slim photo booth sleeves, taken four years apart
are you taking our years apart and plunking them into a jigsaw puzzle tin
are they keepsake-worthy or will I find them
six months down the road, cycling through their third yard sale

what are you making room for these days
those new calloused hands you found - I think they feel just
like his did back then - will you collect the marks they leave on your hips
display his best intentions in a glass case
is there still room in your pockets
for my stray bobby pins

and what will you take with you
tomorrow and next year
will it be something I made for you, or will you shrug me
off your shoulders like a wet coat
and close the garage door