From the window the river rinses the dark. I twist the wedding beads around my neck. I’ve lost my ring, silver and antique, bought from the night market in the other world across the ocean, color of dull lead, color of the pan I scrub and burn in the sink. * Catullus wrote, I hate and love, and he wasn’t talking about marriage. * Not talking about the blacked-out window crossed with hurricane tape, like a movie screen, a page redacted, your hand erasing a blackboard with an eraser’s soft compliant body.
Compendium of Lost Objects
Not the butterfly wing, the semiprecious stones,
the shard of mirror,
not the cabinet of curiosities built with secret drawers
to reveal and conceal its contents,
but the batture, the rope swing, the rusted barge
sunk at the water’s edge
or the park’s Live Oaks you walked through
with the forbidden man
or the pink-shuttered house on the streetcar line
where you were married
or the green shock of land off I-10, road leading
you away from home.
Not any of this
but a cot at the Superdome sunk in a dumpster
and lace valances from a Lakeview kitchen where water
rose six feet high inside
and a refrigerator wrapped in duct tape lying
in the dirt of a once-yard
and a Blue Roof and a house marked 0 and a
kitchen clock stopped at the time the hurricane hit.
Because, look, none of this fits
in a dark wood cabinet for safekeeping.
This is an installation
—never seen again.