& I almost missed it: the first time in two years that my body

belongs to no one but me, that no one is waiting with anything
like anticipation for its next arrival, waiting for its trumpets and drums,

its groans, its cathedral-breaking shutter from above, from below.


In truth, it might have been the wrong time for her to leave.
Mass Pike on a Sunday, 5 p.m. Outside, frost on the windshield
& windshield wipers—see how they stand straight up
like antennae, like sentinels.
 

Tonight, there’ll be no goodnight you text, no soft chest hot against my back.
I put on the last shirt she wore. Position a few sweaters behind me;

wear her socks to bed. Thinking the furnace will kick on any minute,
again, I almost miss it—as if from inside the hollow of this house,

this wild thrum in me. This body. And it’s mine. All mine.