Shoving full paper bags into the trunk,
she pauses only to rub eye to sleeve
nose to wrist, she has wept enough.
A pillar,a cellar,a shaker,a lick,
cracked with disappointment,
she leaves hard, eaten away.
Their final argument stands,
there is No, there is Yes, there is
a staircase going down and up
tipped on its side, every step
becomes a corner, every move lateral,
que sera, she whispers, que sera.
Whatever fits will go, one carload.
The rest is his and welcome to it-
skillets hold memories, pillows too.
For now, to be alone suits just fine,
the dust she leaves tells the story,
she shakes it off her feet, drives away.