Sharing a bathroom with your dead fiancée
is never easy, especially with her
shaving cream and razor still sunbathing
on the mildewed shower sill,
rusting late into the Florida afternoons.
Plus, she paces through all the mirrors relentless,
wearing that diaphanous summer dress, you know, the one
you loved best, the one you buried her in beneath
the dunes; and she’s always asking the same silly question,
holding up two silver hoops: does this match?
At dusk, more traces: her eyes, whistling
sawgrass, hair like braided bran,
her laugh a champagne cork,
and perfect alabaster teeth
suspended midair.
You quiver as she broods in the corner
still trying to decide what to wear
even though her wardrobe is scattered
across Goodwills in five counties and none
of the precious scraps you’ve kept complement her stilettos.
How long do these echoes last? It’s been one month
since the world ended for you both,
the hottest day on record (the bees are still gossiping
about it along the brittle grass) and though she tries
she cannot drink from the tap
which spouts only cheap wine and unfortunate rumors
such as these.