Sunday Nights, Emma Brunette
I couldn’t bring myself to take them home—
the items sealed in the evidence bag:
your wallet, thick with crumbly-edged
school photos; an old T-Shirt
stained with grease. It made no sense
to take them home if I couldn’t take you.
The doctor said he beat your heart
like a djembe—like you used to beat mom.
The shed you built out back sinks into the earth.
I leave the vines that climb it alone.