Sometimes she says your name just to say it,
just to bring you like a breeze into the room.

She expects something of me, then, and who
knows what. After she said it today, I let it

dissolve in our South Georgia kitchen, not looking
to remember yours and mine in Denver: cabinets

too high, above the basement, which was riddled
with spiders, water glugging through the pipes.

Or our booze-fueled beginnings, or the break
            so sharp there was no exploration     

                         and no mend. Our life stopped
like a red light, obeyed without question.

You are a past, and only one. Your name
drifts like weed seed. I do not chase it.

– Katherine Fallon