All that is left of you
can be found folded neatly
in the linen closet,
a brown and white checked bed sheet
that refuses to unravel,
or be dulled by repeated bleaching.
It was always thin, masculine
with an incongruous border of lace
still sturdy and unstained
some thirty years later.
It is single, like we were,
and of no comfort or warmth.
Once I tried to win you back,
with red wine and Port Salut cheese
on chunks of fresh baked bread,
homemade butter, Greek olives, red grapes,
an impromptu picnic at the edge of a field,
under a tree, on top of this sheet.
It was enough for me, briefly,
just the musky scent of you.
I also have three seafood cookbooks,
inscribed with your unique handwriting
in which you describe, in detail, your love
of Maine, lobster and butter, but not me.
In a drawer of old things,
there is a low light strip of
Super 8 film which doesn't do justice
to my faded memories of your dark beard
and unruly black hair, with a streak of white.